


The Theory of Magic

by evejenson (rentachi)



Series: The Theory of Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Fi has odd friends, Fi swears a lot, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magic, Mentor Severus Snape, Multi, Necromancy, No Bashing, Original Character-centric, Original Plot, POV Female Character, POV Harry Potter, POV Severus Snape, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Slow Build, Talking skulls, Voldemort made fewer horcruxes, a lot of OCs - Freeform, realistic characters, well kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 58,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rentachi/pseuds/evejenson
Summary: A cursed hedge witch answers a want ad for a position at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.Nothing is ever the same again.





	1. Gnomes & Other Uninvited Guests

**CHAPTER ONE**

**\- Gnomes & Other Uninvited Guests -**

 

When the masked wizards came again, Delphinia Dullahan decided it was most likely time to move.

They were not the first magic users of dubious intent to come sniffing about her garden and, to Fi’s exasperation, they would likely not be the last. She rather liked her remote cottage with its planters of thistle and thyme, the occasional gnome sneaking over the stone wall when they thought she wasn’t looking, and the copper pots hanging from the rack that gleamed in the sunlight during the summer time. Truth be told, the main room had never smelled the same after her accident with doxy eggs going foul in her potion—but Fi was attached to the place all the same. Her kind tended to be an intractable and stubborn bunch of homebodies.

Fi was a hedge witch—one of the last hedge witches, a thought that always proved to sour her otherwise chipper disposition. Though her coven had died out almost a hundred years ago, Fi had remained in her cottage in the forested highlands, practicing her craft and generally staying well away from the general hubbub of society, wizarding or otherwise. The curious types occasionally found their way to her door, driven by the whispered gossip of the nearest villagers who told tales of a hag in the wood capable of brewing any potion a body could wish for, any cure or restorative, immortal life and eternal happiness.

Most were turned away easily enough when greeted at the door by a diminutive young woman with pale eyes and a braid the color of raven feathers. Fi was never what they wanted to see. They wanted to see the hag, the veritable banshee—not the pretty girl with the open smile and mischievous hands. Most returned home, disappointed but with curiosity sated.

Some did not turn away. Some brandished their wands and demanded her secrets in the name of their masters.

Some went tumbling over the cliffs and were never heard from again.

Fi poked the curtains and peered out her window into the moonlit garden. She saw two black shapes shifting in the dark, the light glancing off the silver masks slid over their faces, and she knew more of them lurked out of sight. Both had their wands out, the braver of the pair marching up to her shut door. Fi didn’t blame them for their caution. She’d sent the last masked wizard flying when he’d tried to take her with him. The man had stated his “Lord” required her services.

Their persistence nagged in the back of Fi’s mind, because it appeared she was known to them now. They wouldn’t be dissuaded. More would come.

“Bugger,” Fi muttered as she chewed on her nails and watched her prospective kidnappers. “Live a few bloody years and every dark wizard with half a brain comes banging on your door.” One of the wizards used his wand to poke about her bin of holly wood. An irritated gnome hocked a woodchip at him.

Fi loved her cottage, but Fi also liked living. “Bugger,” she said again, earnest, abandoning the window to go to her cluttered bedroom. Feeling a bit breathless, she unearthed a dusty carpetbag from behind the headboard and went about tossing her journals and mementos inside. Her hands flicked to and fro, sending notebooks and quills sailing, the magic following her wordless intent.

“Delphinia!” spoke the irritable voice of a witch from the emptying bookshelf. Fi’s gaze landed on the white skull there, a ruby gem faceted on the stubborn brow. “Delphinia, what do you mean with all this racket at this hour?”

“Uninvited house guests, Ever,” Fi replied to the skull of Everild Everdeen.

“Well then send them on their way with a nice Wandering Curse, there’s a girl.”

“I think they’re going to be a bit more persistent than that,” Fi said. She paused in her packing and listened, lips pressed in a firm line. She could hear their voices if she concentrated, sibilating baritones moving about as they sought out her traps. They were clever to be cautious, and that cleverness reaffirmed Fi’s decision. “We’d best go somewhere a bit safer for a while.”

Ever grumbled as Fi reached up to her shelf and lifted the skull from her brocaded pillow. “Do you mean to shove me into that bag like some common cow bone?!”

“Well, what else would you have me do?”

“Carry me!”

“Oh yes, that’ll go over swimmingly with the Muggles and Magicked alike, won’t it? ‘Look at my bejeweled skull! I am not at all conspicuous!’”

The skull and the soul bound within settled into a displeased quiet. “You don’t have to take that tone with me.”

Fi refrained from telling the witch she thought it was quite apt Ever was only a skull now, since she was such a hard-head, and instead slipped a silver scarf out from a bursting dresser. She wrapped it about Ever and tucked in the corners. Satisfied, she settled her friend inside the carpetbag’s expanded interior and gave her a nice pat on the cranium before snapping the bag shut. “Now, what am I forgetting?”

From the main room came an indignant shriek and Fi all but jumped out of her skin. “Wretched bird,” she gasped, one hand against her beating heart, the other snatching her bag’s handles. Fi hustled out of the bedroom in time to hear the first resounding thump of wizard knuckles striking her door.

“Bugger, bugger.”

A crooked perch rose above the sizable hearth, and on that perch hunched a skinny, wrathful looking bird with dark green plumage and a wicked beak. The Augurey beat his wings in irritation and gave another shrill cry.

“Yes, Puck, I hear you and so does everyone else.”

The knock came again, louder. Fi straightened her shoulders and took a calming breath, eyes intent on the banking embers lending a soft glow to the otherwise dark room. “Yes, well—let’s go then, daft bird.”

With a single thrust of his wings, the bird leapt from his roost and landed upon Fi’s arm, his talons able to encircle the whole of her bicep with ease. He gave her head an affectionate peck. Fi winced before she went to retrieve the flowerpot on the mantel, pouring out a handful of glittering powder before banishing the rest.

The masked wizard struck the door again—louder than ever, and Fi knew they must have unraveled her wards, as they continued to hit the barrier with the apparent intent of taking the thing down off its hinges. She threw her Floo powder into the embers and green flames perked up. A moment later, red light blazed outside her windows and the poor door came crashing inward with a gust of dirt and shredded vegetation.

Wide-eyed, Fi jumped into the hearth. “Diagon Alley!”

Before her cottage whisked itself away, she spied three wizards standing on her mat, wands raised, one shouting in alarm, another snarling a curse—but he was too late, and the curse rebounded off the mantel’s stone as Fi disappeared.


	2. Vampires & Finger Bones

**CHAPTER TWO**

**\- Vampires & Finger Bones -**

 

Despite being a popular destination in wizarding Britain, few people were wandering Diagon Alley when Fi arrived. Of course, it was rather late for any person to be up and about, let alone a seemingly young witch covered in soot with an Augurey swaying on her shoulder. She wore a long tunic speckled with old stains and a pair of aubergine leggings instead of the typical robes and hat, though she had to admit she liked those jaunty hats with their wide brims and floppy tops. Regardless, however, it was quite late, and as Fi hurried from the communal hearth along the cobbled lane, she earned quite a number of puzzled glances.

A man Fi guessed to be one of those Ministry Aurors called out “Miss!” as she rushed by, but Fi didn’t stop and just continued on her way.

From her bag came the muffled complaint of “You’re jostling me! You’re jostling me!”

“Yes, I hear you,” Fi grumbled. “Why does everyone think I’m deaf?!”

Puck screeched.

“Yes, thank you, Puck.”

Though she preferred the quiet isolation of her highland cottage, Fi had been to the Alley a number of times in her prolonged life to procure various items she couldn’t bribe from her village neighbors or hustle from her friends. Generally, she found the shops overpriced and a bit too ostentatious for her liking, but Fi thought all normal witches and wizards were just a tad too ostentatious, with their Galleons and their wands and petty little blood feuds. Her coven had always taught the value of community, and currency had no value among them. Gold could buy a witch nothing in the wilds, and magic there was less…structured. Older. More instinctual.

Fi found the turn she needed and darted by a sign reading Knockturn Alley.

Compared to the adjoined street, Knockturn Alley was a grungy place and far more populated in the liminal hours of night. Many of the shops remained open despite the time, their display windows stocked with a wide variety of less traditional implements. One stooped wizard spotted the slim witch hurrying along with a monstrous bird on her shoulder and made a move as if to block her path, but Fi only snapped her fingers to shunt him back.

She came to a stop before a shop bearing the name Dystal Phaelanges. Through the window she could see many different sets of bones laid out on display, and though Fi meant to get herself indoors, she couldn’t help but spare a few of the more exotic pieces a covetous eye. Any good hedge witch knew her bones well. Bones were what connected the spiritual and earthly realms and resonated with magics far more intrinsic than any simple charm or jinx. Witches and wizards had spent their entire lives just trying to understand what bones already knew.

“I wonder if those are real Peruvian Vipertooth teeth,” she pondered, stroking Puck’s plumage as she slowed by the window. Fi paused. “Viperteeth? Vipertooths?”

Puck pecked at her fingers.

“Right, right.”

She rapped her knuckles upon the door barring entry to the lofts above the bone shop. The peeling paint, dark ambiance, and gutters fit to burst with old autumn leaves did not lend the place a welcoming air, yet Fi waited all the same, still holding her luggage. Ever muttered about “imprudent brats.”

The drawn out thump of reluctant feet coming down the stairs preceded the jangle of a door chain and the ominous creak of untended hinges. A man appeared at the threshold.

“Fi?”

“How is my favorite fanged friend this evening?”

Not many people would call Knockturn Alley home, but then Grigor Todorov was not many people. He was a vampire. A generous dab of hair product kept his tidy brown hair out of his pale face and red eyes. He dressed in a waistcoat and loose-sleeved shirt with tight cuffs. A thick Eastern accent rolled off his tongue. He forewent typical wizard attire, but Fi could see the hem of a traveling robe hung just inside the main entrance.

“I am well,” came his polite—if shocked—reply, the creature laying an alabaster hand against his broad chest. Grigor was a full head taller than Fi and a fair amount heavier, though his height stretched much of his musculature into something lanky and thin. “Forgive me—I am surprised to see you here, scumpa mea.”

Fi’s wrinkled her nose at the foreign endearment. Her attention wavered toward the alley’s dim alcoves and she reminded herself of her determined pursuers. “Grigor, I am being followed and would appreciate a place to stay while I think of what to do next.”

Wordless, Grigor stepped back and ushered the hedge witch inside. He cast a searching look toward Knockturn before shutting the door.

“Who is it that dares force you from your home?” he asked once they began to march up the stairs to the higher landing. A hard edge tightened the tone of his voice and ruffled Puck’s feathers. “More importantly, why have you not…dealt with them?”

“We should probably wait until we get inside. Morgana only knows what kind of ears this place has.”

“Of course.”

Grigor led the way to his flat and Fi felt the various wards woven in the floorboards hum beneath her worn shoes. The smell in the air left something to be desired, but she guessed it came from the shop below, where they most likely also cleaned the flesh from the bones they so proudly displayed. Grigor popped open his warped door and Fi stepped inside with a grateful sigh. The flat was comprised of a single room, clean and spare in furnishing, the winged armchair dragged from the fireplace to the scratched windows overlooking the alley. A single candle charmed to never drip rested on the sideboard and gave light to the vampire’s dreary lair.

Fi set her bag down, earning another complaint from Ever, and went to the windows. “Come, see.”

Grigor did as he was bid. He stood at the hedge witch’s side and stared at the dirty street below, his keen eyes gleaming like a wolf’s in the hungering dark, though Fi paid him no mind. A minute passed before one of the wizards following her flowed by, and though he had foregone his mask, the man had thrown some kind of Disillusionment spell upon his face, making it all but impossible to memorize his features.

“Does he have a Tracking spell on you?” Grigor asked, alarmed.

Fi shook her head. “No. I cannot be Tracked. My Will overrides the power of their spells—however, if they were particularly strong, it is possible their spells could surpass my Will.” Fi shrugged. Though she looked no more than twenty years in age, her posture and the sharpness of her limpid eyes betrayed a liquid, aged acumen that always sent a thrill through Grigor. “But that’s not the case here. There’s simply only a finite number of ways a person can travel in the wizarding quarter, and I know they heard me say Diagon Alley when I used the Floo. I would have Apparated, but I felt them throw up wards the moment they arrived.”

The wizard passed by, unaware of Fi’s damning stare.

“That does not explain why you did not simply dispose of them.” Grigor paused and a hand came to rest on his narrow chin, his lips parting, a flash of fang peeking between them. “And how did they come to know of you?”

“Oh, I am not exactly subtle, I guess.” Fi framed her face in her hands and batted her eyelashes, earning a reluctant grin from the vampire. “I’ve looked the same since we met, have I not? What’s it been? A hundred years or so?”

“Or so.”

Nodding, Fi jostled the Augurey from her person and urged him to settle instead on the back of the armchair. He went, though if the shriek he emitted was anything to go by, he was not pleased. Ever sighed from the bag.

“They sent a wizard before,” Fi explained to Grigor, turning to the room again. “Three nights passed. I was in the garden, harvesting my ipomea dew. He said his Lord required my services. He spoke cordially enough, of course—.” She rolled her eyes. “But what else is a witch to do when a masked man comes up to her house in the middle of nowhere? Invite him in for tea? I think not.” Snorting, Fi went to her bag and set about freeing Ever from her impromptu prison. The skull’s complaining grew in volume when Fi unwrapped the scarf and tossed the fabric aside.

“—tossing me about like common pantry dishes! Rude, I say!”

“Ever, you remember Grigor, right?” Ignoring the dramatics, Fi turned the skull to face her friend and Grigor grinned, bowing at the waist.

“Lady Everild, a pleasure.”

“Oh, it’s the vampire.” The words were harsh but Ever’s tone was soft, affectionate. “Just as handsome as ever, I see.”

“You honor me, High Witch.”

Amused, Fi marched over to the fireplace and set Ever on Grigor’s mantel, pushing aside a moth-eaten volume of Germanic writings as she did so. “Go back to sleep, Ever. The danger is passed.”

The jewel flashed with orange light for an instant, then dimmed. “Impertinent child,” the skull bickered, but High Witch Everild Everdeen settled again in what passed as rest for a witch’s bound sentience. Smirking, Fi cast a quick sticking charm to ensure the skull could not be stolen if someone managed to force their way into the flat, then went to Grigor.

“So they returned in greater numbers, and will keep coming for your defiance,” he said, crossing his long arms. “Do you know who sent them?”

Fi shrugged. “Whatever Dark Lord is in power now, I’d imagine.” Truth be told, as wild as she lived, Fi paid little mind to the goings-on of the wizarding world and wasn’t precisely sure what overstuffed ponce had decided he was top sparkler in the sparkler pile. Fi’s coven had a long history, and in that history they had watched many a Dark Wizard rise up and demand his due. There was always someone who decided he deserved more. Fi slumped into the armchair and, with a twist of her hand, summoned a plush ottoman for her feet. “Wait, I know it. It’s not Gellert. I remember reading that he got banged up, though I dealt with a few of his zealots over the years. It’s Vold—something. Voldelort? Voldetort? Voldedort? Voldesnort?” Fi tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Voldeshort? No, now I’m just making up nonsense….”

Grigor flinched, then cleared his throat. “Voldemort, Fi, but in polite society you must call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Well, that’s just a mouthful.”

“Delphinia.” Grigor folded his hands behind his back and adopted a stricter tone. Fi’s brow arched, interested in the sudden shift of his demeanor. “Don’t make light of the situation. He killed many, many people. The Dark Lord was defeated almost eleven years ago now. Why would followers of his be searching for you? You, the Mistress of Life?”

Fi frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted in a soft hush. Puck leaned down to butt against her head, clicking and crooning, and Fi sent her fingers through the bird’s feathers as she considered her situation. She may tease Grigor by exaggerating her ignorance, because she did recall there being a celebration about the Dark Lord’s apparent demise, but Fi was a skeptic at heart. For a dead Dark Lord, Voldemort sure had a lot of followers still out and about. “It is quite the curious thing though, isn’t it?”


	3. Sweets & Schemes

**CHAPTER THREE**

**\- Sweets & Schemes -**

 

Fi firmly believed if there was a heaven, it mightily resembled Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor.

It was a small shop, but inside Fi found the confectionery wonder of Florean’s cold sweets to be worth every Galleon she could part with. She sat outside on the tiny patio beneath the brunt of late winter’s watery sunshine and devoured a massive cone of blaeberry and pecan ice cream, licking her lips and luxuriating in the simple things as she watched the bustling witches and wizards go about their shopping. Curious eyes landed on her—the oddly dressed young woman sitting alone munching ice cream despite the cold weather—but Fi had yet to spy hide nor hair of her pursuers.

“Well, they’d have to be dunderheads to come after me during the day, but I would have thought they’d be looking,” Fi muttered to herself, wiping her face on a paper napkin. “But I’m not infallible. Maybe they _are_ looking and I just don’t know it. Hmm.”

She had yet to conceive of an idea of what to do about the wizards hunting her. Certainly she could fling a few more off a cliff, but Fi knew the more dangerous she proved to this enemy, the more wily he would become. More wizards would follow. If she escalated the situation without thought, without care, this “Lord” would do the same, and Fi was but one witch against an enemy she could not rightly name. Ever always liked to say “ _The wise witch runs before the dragon swoops_ ,” and Fi guessed any wizard with masked followers trying to kidnap women in the middle of the night qualified as a dragon.

Still, she couldn’t stay with Grigor forever. She’d need to move on soon.

Fi finished her ice cream and, though Grigor had warned her against spending the borrowed coin frivolously, she went inside and ordered another from Florean, who gave her a bemused look as he went about scooping her selection. Still thinking of Grigor’s less than pleased reaction to her distance from society, Fi picked up a folded copy of _The Daily Prophet_ and went about flipping through the pages, her lips drawn back in a frown as she did so.

_There’s nothing of note in here. Just a bunch of gossip articles and basic political coverage. No odd disappearances or unexplained deaths_.

She flicked to the adverts written in the rear of the paper. The mass of text blurred and the headlines shifted, the pictures giving her grumpy looks for wrinkling their paper. Pausing, Fi noticed a listed posting shuffled toward the bottom of the page. “ _Seeking instructor for Magical Theory at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Full-time employment with disclosed benefits. Inquire by owl with curriculum vitae to Prof. M. McGonagall_.”

“Hmm….”

At first, Fi thought little of the advert. She folded the paper back up and, after asking Florean if she could take it, tucked the issue under her arm. She accepted her ice cream from the wizard, pouring on enough effusive praise to raise a blush in the aging man’s face, then went about picking her way to Knockturn Alley. The shop bell jangled behind her and Fi began to stroll, keeping her eyes open for the masked wizards.

_Bet I wouldn’t be chased by Dark wizards at Hogwarts_.

It was an idle musing, one she gave little consideration, but even as Fi turned her mind toward more feasible options for her relocation, she came again to the idea of Hogwarts, the only place in all of the United Kingdom she could think of that was as firmly lodged in the old ways of magic as Fi herself. She could flee the country, but Britain wasn’t the only wizarding world poisoned with nasty little Dark witches and wizards and their fair share of Dark Lords. Fi had fled countries before—Egypt, Morocco, France, Romania—and so she knew with certainty that fleeing only dissuaded interested parties for a finite amount of time.

She also considered going to the Ministry of Magic, yet grimaced at herself when she tossed the thought aside. Oh, there may be quite a number of helpful folk in the Ministry who’d want to lend assistance, but how many of those held any position of power? Who would believe a witch bemoaning the existence of Dark wizards when the papers proclaimed the Dark Lord dead? Fi counted it a worse fate to actually be _believed_ , for if they thought her claims credible, they would want to know _why_. Fi was not about to hand over the secrets of her dead coven to a bunch of bureaucrats.

_Hogwarts, though. That’s a wild fantasy. Why, by Merlin’s beard, would they hire a hedge witch?_

The simple truth was they would not. Why should they? With a bevy of talented alumni, why would the school accept the posting of a “home-taught” witch from the wildlands who had no formal education or any idea of how a classroom actually worked?

But what if she wasn’t a hedge witch?

Fi opened the door to Grigor’s flat in Knockturn and climbed the stairs, knocking once before entering his dismal abode. The vampire lay atop the covers on his skinny bed, dressed and snoozing with a book dropped over his face. The windows Fi had been observing the street through the night before hid behind a thick veil of brocaded curtains, and the dark crouched upon the space with an oppressive weight. Puck had his head tucked under his wing.

“Grigor,” Fi said, poking the sleeping vampire. She took the newspaper and whacked him on the chest for good measure, prompting a groan from the creature and a displeased chittering from Puck. Fi waved a hand toward the leaning sideboard and the candle ignited. “Wake up.”

Grigor did as she bid, though not without a generous amount of snarling and a few threats of exsanguination. Fi conjured herself a simple chair and sat by his bedside, waiting while nocturnal Grigor levered himself upright and rubbed sleep from his unhappy eyes.

“What is it you need, Fi?”

Grinning, she unfolded the _Prophet_ and laid the paper on his knees. “Look there.”

Grigor did look, though a minute passed before his faculties allowed him to form a comment. “What is this? A teaching post?” He looked up at Fi. “Your face is covered in blue. Did you spend all the coin on ice cream or did you also get yourself some robes as I suggested?”

Fi wiped her mouth of the sticky residue. “I have coin left. Where do you think I could find myself a wand?”

“A _wand_?” Grigor’s eyes widened and Ever on the mantel gasped. “ _Scumpa mea_ , are you well? You cannot stand wands.”

“Wand?! What nonsense!” Ever snarled.

“It’s perfect sense,” Fi argued, tossing a temporary Silencing spell around her and Grigor. “If I mean to be a Professor, I will most definitely need a wand.”

“You want to _apply_?” Grigor gawked and Fi smothered the urge to laugh. She couldn’t remember a time her friend had looked so utterly shocked. “Fi, I know your situation is severe, but they won’t hire a—.”

“Hedge witch, yes, I know. That is why I plan to create a nice little back story for myself that includes formal education.”

“They will know you did not go to Hogwarts, Delphinia.”

“Of course! Which is why I will say I went to Ilvermony.”

“Ilver—how is it you know almost nothing about the Dark Lord but know what _Ilvermony_ is?”

Fi crossed her legs. “I know a great deal about the Dark Lord and his many predecessors, Grigor.” Her tone lost some of its jubilance, which caused the vampire to straighten his posture and to remember he spoke to a woman many years his elder. “I know it seems like a silly idea, my fine fanged friend, but my intuition warns me against ignoring these men searching for me, and I…I don’t think it would be wise to be alone.”

Grigor’s stare softened. “You needn’t be alone. You could stay with me.”

She waved a hand. “Too many people about. Too many nosy little witches and wizards. The school is nicely out of sight, and protected. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to apply for an interview. I could teach.” Fi wrinkled her nose. “Well enough, I would assume. If the Dark wizards don’t kill me, a pack of children might just eat me alive.”

The vampire let out a weak laugh, rubbing his face, then sighed. “You are determined, then.”

“Determined to try, perhaps. I would very much like to return to my cottage and forget all of this ever happened, but I fear my next encounter with these wizards won’t be as anti-climatic, and I think fading from the public eye would be best for a time.”

“Hogwarts is not wholly removed from public speculation, Fi.”

“Of course not, but what is one eccentric witch among a dozen others?” Fi shrugged her shoulders then stood, leaning forward to put her knees on the bed and embrace Grigor. He stiffened at first, then reciprocated, tightening his hold as he smiled into her dark hair and smelled the sweetness of sugar and the duller scents of smoke and chalk. “Thank you, Grigor, for helping me.”

“You saved my life in Romania, _scumpa mea_ , and much has passed between us,” he replied. “I would do whatever I could for you.”

“Then I’d also like to thank you for more gold because I did spend the last lot on ice cream.”

Grigor sighed, brow furrowed. “I would expect nothing less.”


	4. Letters & Legilimens

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**\- Letters & Legilimens -**

 

With an audible _pop!_ of sound, Fi appeared on a snow dusted lane of Hogsmeade village and took in a long, lingering breath.

She loved the highlands. Fi had been born there and had lived among the gray ridges for much of her long life, exploring the valleys and the fords, the lochs and the dense forests—but for all her time in the country, Fi had never actually been to Hogwarts. She had seen it from a distance just as she did now, soaring towers stately and strong above the pines and slumped hills, but she had never been inside. Fi had tried to sneak in a few times during her rebellious youth. The wards about the castle’s grounds and the persnickety troop of house elves had prevailed in keeping the hedge witch out.

_Bloody elf magic. Wasted upon the wizards, I say._

Fi stood with her new black robes gently billowing about her legs with her eyes on the side of the academy’s highest tower. A quick Charm had added silver threads to her hair, the loose braid gathered and pinned on the back of her head to give the youthful witch a sterner mien. Grigor had plopped a pair of thick-rimmed glasses upon her nose in a bid to age Fi, though she thought the spectacles only served to make her look a bit owlish. A wand bought from a less than legal vendor in Knockturn Alley rested in Fi’s robe pocket and she stifled the urge to pat the thing to ensure it was still there. The morning had been spent attempting to make the stick stop spewing sparks throughout Grigor’s flat.

_If they ask me to do any wand work, I might well burn down Hogwarts. Embarrassing._

Fi dug out a crinkled bit of parchment from her other pocket and read the tidy script again, ignoring the flecks of snow landing on the upturned page.

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  _of_  WITCHCRAFT  _and_ WIZARDRY

 

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

 

_Ms. Dullahan,_

_Thank you for your inquiry. We would like to request an interview for 8:00 o’clock in the morning, on March the third. Please send your acknowledgment via owl and arrive promptly at the village gates for admittance._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress._

 

Fi felt pleased her references, while partially forged, had passed muster. She knew all good lies were firmly rooted in the truth, and so Fi had thought carefully about the persona she would present at the school and the history she would share. She had listed her accomplishments and abilities with a measure of modesty and had asked for referrals from witches and wizards she’d lent assistance to in the past—including the current Master of Potions at the Mahoutokoro School of Magic and Babajide Akingbade from the International Confederation of Wizards. Of course, Fi had to ask Hideaki and Babajide to fib about her true identity, but they had obliged—and had, in fact, seemed excited about Fi shedding her isolation in favor of sharing her knowledge with children.

The thought of their reactions still made Fi cranky.

True difficulty lay not within Fi’s ability, but the explanation for those abilities, and she hoped her forged credentials from Ilvermony School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would pass inspection, but she was not certain. Her magic was strong and the persuasive Charm she had placed upon the documentation should dissuade the Deputy Headmistress from delving too deeply into her education—or lack thereof—yet Fi knew a suspicious mind might pick up the presence of the spell and see by it.

She blew air through her lips and straightened her shoulder. “Well, here goes nothing.”

A passing shopkeep threw a startled look in her direction.

Fi found the village gates to the school’s expansive grounds easy enough—and she found others waiting in attendance as well, an aged witch with a mass of ginger curls and a hunched wizard wearing plum colored robes. She guessed they were also candidates for the position. Both eyed her with some speculation and Fi winced. She looked quite like a girl fresh out of academy standing with those two, and not for the first time she bemoaned the downside of eternal youth. It was all fun and games for the first handful of decades, then the exterior no longer matched the mind inside and Fi chaffed against the juvenile treatment she often received when interacting with wizarding society.

Grigor had suggested Transfiguring her appearance to something older, but they had both decided against the idea when they realized any misstep on her behalf would arouse terrible suspicion. If a student or another faculty member realized she was using a disguise, Fi could be placed in an entirely different kind of danger—danger of the judicial inquiry kind. That mess did not appeal to her at all.

Soon a limping figure appeared from the roving mist and descended the distant path to the castle, coming to open the gates for the prospective professors. He was an unpleasant looking man dressed in an overly large coat with thinning hair and bulging cheeks. He inspected all three of them in turn—and when the clock struck eight, the gate popped open and the man spoke.

“I’m the Caretaker, Filch. I’ll be taking you three up to the castle now for your interviews. Don’t wander off.”

Fi frowned at the ugly man yet fell into step with the others. _My, what an unfortunate name. Filch._

Apparently both the witch and the wizard knew Mr. Filch and struck up a stilted conversation with him, leaving Fi to hover in the background, studying the castle ahead with singular attention. She felt giddy at the prospect of seeing the inside and decided that, whatever the outcome, walking into Hogwarts would be well worth all the hassle. The school may teach the ostentatious magic of the modern era, but Fi’s coven always spoke of the Founders and of the old magics still remaining in the castle, the wards and runes and ancient things that had fallen into legend, memory, myth. Fi hoped she could examine the interior properly one day.

Mr. Filch led them up the path and through a leg of the murky forest wrapped about the grounds like a surly serpent. They came to the top of the hill and, looking down, Fi could see the glassy surface of the black loch and the fog crawling about its shined surface, and a collection of bobbing black dots by a distant paddock looked to be students in class. Filch parted an iron gate blocking access to a stone courtyard, and a cat came pattering along to give him unneeded assistance. Fi grinned as she stepped onto the flagstones. No one else of her coven had ever managed to put a foot inside the building before.

“Keep up.”

Fi started, realizing her little group had already moved on, and she jogged to follow. They entered the building proper and while the witch and wizard gave the passage an approving look over, it was clear they had been here before and had familiarity with the school. Fi, on the other hand, gawked and had to be reminded twice more by Mr. Filch to keep up despite her desire to remain inconspicuous. The witch and wizard gave her unamused glowers.

They continued on and eventually ascended several flights of stairs in one of the larger towers to arrive on a landing adorned with curious portraits and two stiff benches. A simple plaque upon the largest door proclaimed the room within to be the office of _M. McGonagall_.

“Have a seat here, then. The professor will see you soon—don’t go wandering off.” The latter part of Filch’s message was delivered in a waspish snap and accompanied by a firm glare in Fi’s direction. She tried not to grin as Filch stomped away. _The students must drive him mad._

The office door opened not a moment after Mr. Filch’s stomping descent down the stairs and a new witch presented herself. Fi’s eyes widened as she noted the woman’s stiff posture and the tightness of her black hair drawn into an intractable bun. Fi had the unaccountable urge to sit up and lower her eyes like a naughty child caught nicking cookies from the pot.

“Thank you for coming on short notice and being prompt. We’ve been quite busy with the exams approaching at the end of the quarter. Mr. Eoughn? I’ll start with you.”

The wizard ambled into the room and McGonagall snapped the door shut behind them, leaving Fi and the witch to exchange glances before they meandered over to the benches. Fi claimed the seat nearest the window, which allowed her to sit cross-legged on the uncushioned bench and gaze across the kept grounds. A deep gully wound its way through the very center of the land, allowing wide bridges to span across the gap. The sun managed to peek through the clouds and the light shimmered upon the lake’s glassy waters. Fi shut her eyes, savoring the brief warmth.

Soon the door opened again and Mr. Eoughn stepped out with McGonagall behind him. “Thank you for your time, Minerva.”

“Of course, Eorland. Ms. McNair?”

The witch took the wizard’s place while he sauntered by, his age forgotten in a moment of triumph, an arrogant grin on his lined features. A bubble of nervousness welled in Fi’s middle. _Did well, did he?_

The tower bell chimed the hour while Fi waited, feet swinging from the bench, bits of dead leaves clinging to her hem, boots dappled with wet spots from the snow. She bit her nails, then shoved her hands beneath her thighs, hearing Ever’s shrill voice reprimanding her, saying no potioneer worth her salt would be caught dead nibbling her fingers. Fi thought any potioneer who _did_ nibble their nails _would_ , in fact, be caught dead—but she didn’t tell Ever that.

Again the door opened, and as Ms. McNair—looking less pleased that Mr. Eoughn—slipped from the room, a newcomer came lightly shuffling down from the upper levels, soft-soled shoes scuffing the worn stone of the spiral stairs. The wizard who appeared had a great white beard he could almost tuck into his belt, and his magenta robes rippled with dozens of yellow stars embroidered onto the flowing fabric. He had a welcoming face, an expression that invited one to impart their deepest secrets, though his blue eyes belied a quickness of mind hidden by his aging body.

“Ah, it seems I’ve missed some of the interviews,” the elderly wizard said, lifting his arms in a placating gesture that did little to relieve the sharpness of McGonagall’s scathing expression. “Forgive me, Minerva.”

“Of course, Headmaster.”

Fi eyed the wizard, frowning, then a full-bodied flinch shook through the little witch when she realized the wizard with his curious gaze fixed upon her was Albus Dumbledore.

The biggest risk Fi had seen in coming to Hogwarts was crossing paths with Albus Percival Dumbledore—and not because he was regarded as the most powerful wizard of the age, but because she’d crossed paths with him _before_ , almost a full century ago when he had been little more than a bitter boy upset by his lot in life. Fi, being indelibly curious to the point of abstraction sometimes, had contacted one Bathilda Bagshot to learn more about her interesting additions to the Transfiguration journals of the time. Bathilda had invited her over for tea, along with her “brilliant” neighbor, a boy fresh out of Hogwarts who’d contributed his own work to the field. Fi often thought it funny the sullen, grumpy young man she met that day became an international legend.

She didn’t find it very funny at the moment. No, in fact Fi felt rather uncomfortable and sent a silent prayer to the universe that the Headmaster wouldn’t remember that hazy summer afternoon, or the black-haired witch who whacked him in the back of the head with a Cauldron Cake for being a right prat. In Knockturn, she’d brushed aside the concern, thinking the man must be half senile by now, but seeing the acuity of his gaze firsthand had a lump forming in Fi’s throat.

“Ms. Dullahan? Are you prepared?” McGonagall asked.

Blinking, Fi stood—much shorter than the other two. “Of course.”

McGonagall led the way into the clean and austere office with Fi and Dumbledore following in her wake. The witch’s stride was proud and steady as she approached her desk and conjured a second chair for the Headmaster’s use. Fi found it curious that the chair hadn’t already been there, if he had been expected to attend all the three interviews, and so she decided Dumbledore had purposefully missed the meetings with Eoughn and McNair.

_Bugger_.

“Have a seat, Ms. Dullahan. Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

McGonagall retrieved her wand from her sleeve and, with a flick, directed the steaming tea service to pour another cup. “Tea, Albus?”

“Thank you, Minerva.” Albus sank into his chair after adding an additional cushion, then accepted his tea as it floated across the room to him. Fi was so intent on watching him she almost missed her own serving and ended up clutching the cup and saucer, creating a loud _click_ of porcelain on porcelain.

“So, Ms. Dullahan, I must say we’ve never had the pleasure of an Ilvermony alumnus applying for a position here at Hogwarts.”

Fi’s gaze snapped to McGonagall as she sipped her tea. “Truly? I wouldn’t have thought it so odd.”

“Your accent isn’t American.”

Smiling, Fi shook her head. “No, I was raised here, but my family traveled, so I was educated at Ilvermony. Horned Serpent house.”

“Curious.” McGonagall shuffled the pressed pieces of parchment lain flat on her desk, and Fi recognized her own curriculum vitae and what must be the letters sent by her friends. “I must say you have remarkable references from all over the globe, including some of the other magical academies. A Mr. Shiroyama from Mahoutokoro was particularly adamant that if Hogwarts didn’t find a place for you, he would claim you for his academy.”

Fi snorted before she could think better of it, choking on her tea. “I’m passionate about magic and about studying its role all over the world, which led to my many travels.”

“Fascinating,” came Dumbledore’s reply. He steepled his fingers and Fi tried not to grimace at his penetrating look. “May I ask you a direct question, Ms. Dullahan?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you think we should hire you over your contemporaries?” Dumbledore gestured at the door Eoughn and McNair had already walked through. “Eorland and Theresa are both widely published in the field of magical theory, but you—while well traveled—have no publications. I would ask why you think we should offer you the position over those who are potentially more qualified than you to teach in an academic environment.”

_Why indeed._

Fi tilted her cup to and fro, considering the liquid and Dumbledore’s blunt inquiry, miffed by the texture of the bland, unsweetened flavor on her tongue. She couldn’t offer him a traditional answer, as she knew it was irregular for a person seeking instructing employment to have no prior exposure to academia, so Fi decided to let a bit of her own mischief show. She had nothing else to lose. “What is magic, Headmaster?”

When he quirked a brow and didn’t speak, Fi met the man’s gaze and urged him again to answer. “It is a force of nature,” he responded, a curious twinkling arresting the blue of his eyes. “A phenomenon that alters the fabric of reality based on the rigors of a spell.”

“But what is it really?” Fi pressed. “What is it _truly_? From where did magic stem, and why did it come to some and not to others? What _is_ magic? What truly is happening when we mutter our Charms or mix our Potions? Spells and curses and hexes are designed, you say, and taught, but from where did we learn to tame this so called force of nature? Where do divisions in its morality lie? Does magic occur naturally, or does it arise from our souls? Are we, ourselves, manifestations of a greater magic? Children of some cosmic entity able to bend reality to our whims?”

“You speak of theology.”

“No, I speak of _theory_ , my dear Headmaster. I speak of an eternal quest for knowledge.” Fi leaned forward to set the cup of tea on the Professor’s desk. She turned to face her and folded her hands in her lap. “I believe this is why I would make an excellent Professor of Magical Theory for the school’s students. While I have not spent time behind a desk, quill in hand, scratching out my thoughts for others to pick over, I have gone in search of answers to these questions. I have valuable life experiences I am willing to share.” _Nearly two and a half centuries worth of experiences_ , came Fi’s wry thought, but she did not give voice to that comment.

Dumbledore and McGonagall considered her in silence for quite some time, and Fi began to worry she had said a bit too much and should have demured more to their by the books instructing model. At last, Dumbledore rose, and as his magenta robes fell about his legs, Fi let out a small sigh and wondered if she could get a hat made in that fabric to console herself after this hiccup.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Dullahan.”

Fi jumped and almost knocked the cup from the desk’s corner in her haste to stand. “What—!? Really?!”

“Really.” Dumbledore inclined his head and gave her a slight chuckle. “I think our students could vastly benefit from your teachings. I have always felt many of our past instructors were too restrictive in their ideas of what magic is and what it is capable of. You will provide our youths with excellent ideas, I believe.” He paused then. “And my colleague Mr. Akingbade at the International Confederation of Wizards was also quite emphatic about my accepting your posting.”

Fi winced. When writing to the few friends knowledgeable in her secret, she had expressed an adamant desire to escape Dark pursuers by finding employ at Hogwarts and could only imagine their letters or comments to the Headmaster. Fi had loyal friends. “Thank you for the opportunity, Headmaster.”

“Minerva will be able to provide you with all the necessary information you need to prepare for the start of the new year. I would suggest settling earlier in the summer so we can arrange for you to become more familiar with the castle.” His beard twitched as he smiled. “It will be interesting to see how you fare.”

He extended his hand and Fi took it in her own, feeling the fine bones and loose flesh in her grip. She met Dumbledore’s gaze and, in that instant, felt the barest brush of a second consciousness touching against her own. The magic slid upon the walls of her mind seeking entry.

_He’s a Legilimens._

The urge to swat the intruder from her thoughts swelled with indignation in Fi’s breast, but she tamped the thought down, allowing only her gratitude and good will to drift beyond the border of her defenses, like throwing paper airplanes from the parapet of a fortress to a nosy neighbor below. Once she’d given the man what he wanted, Fi waited for him to withdraw, unsure if she should display her knowledge of his talent. She could throw the wizard from her consciousness if she desired, but Fi couldn’t be certain of Dumbledore’s skill, and she didn’t know if she could defend against him if he decided to be serious.

The moment passed and their hands parted.

_That man is far more than he pretends to be. I will need to be careful._


	5. Firewhisky & Banged Shins

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**\- Firewhisky & Banged Shins -**

 

In the interim months of spring and summer that lay between Fi’s interview and her relocation to Hogwarts, the hedge witch wandered the country. She loved Grigor, but the austere lifestyle of the nocturnal creature didn’t mesh well with her needs, and she began to see the Masked Ones—as she called them—pacing the length of Knockturn alley with uncomfortable frequency. Each wizard or witch had the same menacing air to them, the same sharpness to their hunting gaze, like falcons circling a field waiting for a mouse to make a wrong move.

So Fi gathered her bag, her bird, and her talking skull and ventured on. She sought out those who owed her small debts, collecting coin or favor to keep her housed or to prepare her for the approaching school year. McGonagall had provided Fi with a list of items she should consider for her move and, when Fi had asked, had also recommended several stores for her selection of texts and basic wizarding needs. The latter had been given with a confused slant to the brow that Fi ignored.

As the days warmed and the snows fled, Fi walked the long paths of England, Wales, and Scotland, visiting Muggle and Wizarding settlements alike, retiring in the parlors of friends and associates to write her lesson plan and to puzzle through Muggle texts on proper teaching methods. All the while she kept a keen eye to her surroundings and too often spotted a shadow or two sniffing about the peripheries, closing in upon her.

In June, she stayed with a werewolf by the name of Calvin Butterman who suggested Fi capture and Imperio one of her lurkers into leading her back to his master. Fi was not as squeamish at the mention of Unforgivables as most witches, but she rather didn’t like the idea of stumbling blindly into whatever den of snakes was breeding the Masked Ones. She discussed the idea with Ever over two fingers of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky, and the dead witch had stated Fi “should have more sense than to pull the wool over her eyes and whack sleeping dragons.”

The general consensus was Fi should avoid her followers and instead keep to herself until interest in her peculiarities faded. If there was anything Delphinia Dullahan had in abundance it was time and patience, so the hedge witch kept herself moving until the day arrived for her to return to Hogwarts.

 

Fi arrived in Hogsmeade much the way she had the first time, Apparating to one of the cozy lanes near the borders—though this time she came with bird and luggage in tow, a heavy trunk clattering to the cobblestones behind her while the hat box under her arm grumbled.

“Terrible form,” Ever said, voice muffled by the box’s cushioning. Fi had felt poorly about carting her mentor’s skull about without proper care, so she’d procured the box to keep Ever secure and safe from curious eyes or sticky hands. “Sloppy, sloppy work.”

“I’m distracted,” Fi told her, looking about the summer-clad village with interest. It was much homier than it had been in the winter, warm and welcoming, and the lovely homes reminded Fi of her little house in the highlands. She missed her cottage desperately and hadn’t been back since fleeing it earlier in the year. She imagined the Masked Ones had trashed the place by now.

Sighing, Fi retrieved her second-hand wand from her robes and held the instrument in her fist, frowning but pleased it hadn’t vomited fire or more toadstools. “Alright, you.”

She gave her trunk a deliberate prod and enunciated, “ _Locomotor_.”

The trunk lurched—then slammed into her legs.

“ _Bugger_!”

“Watch your language, Delphinia.”

Rubbing sore shins, Fi stuffed her wand into her robes. With a furtive glance about the empty lane, she willed her magic into being and flicked her hand, levitating the trunk off the street. Fi set the hat box on the trunk’s lid with a satisfied huff. Puck clicked his beak.

“Right? So much easier.”

As Fi began her trek to the castle gates, a door leading to a tavern swung outward and emitted two witches and the largest wizard Fi had ever seen. He stood a full head and shoulders taller than either of the witches accompanying him, dressed in a shaggy coat with a beard of wild, bushy brown hair. One of the witches was McGonagall, the other a woman of middling years with thin black hair and a fetching set of scarlet robes.

Their conversation halted mid-sentence when the trio spotted the other witch standing in the lane and McGonagall greeted her. “Ms. Dullahan, how are you? I didn’t know you were arriving today. We were expecting you earlier in the summer.”

“I’m well, thank you. I had a few things to take care of before moving myself in.” Fi shook hands with McGonagall. “Call me Fi, Professor. Or Delphinia, if you wish.”

The witch next to McGonagall extended her hand and Fi marveled at the strength of her grip. “Septima Vector. I teach Arithmancy at the school.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Delphinia Dullahan, the new Magical Theory instructor.”

The large man shuffled forward to shake Fi’s hand next, and she noticed he was exceedingly careful with her tiny hand cradled in his. “Hullo. Rubeus Hagrid, but you can just call me Hagrid. I’m the groundskeeper at Hogwarts.” He had his beetle-black eyes on Puck, who watched the man with his head cocked. “That there is an Augurey, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Blimey, he’s a beauty.”

Fi laughed as Puck preened and a faint flush rose behind Hagrid’s beard. “His name is Puck. He’s a bit of a trouble-maker, so I’ll be keeping him out of the owlery.”

McGonagall cleared her throat and Hagrid glanced in her direction, admonished. “Let’s get Delphinia up to the castle so she’ll have a chance to unpack before lunch.”

They fell into step with the Deputy Headmistress and headed toward the gates, Fi leading her trunk along with the occasional surreptitious tap of the finger. Hagrid’s gait was three times that of the witches so he deliberately slowed himself until he walked by Fi. “I hav’ never seen an Augurey as big as this fellow. What do you feed ‘im?”

“Oh, he has a rather nasty habit of picking on gnomes and fairies.” Puck trilled in dissent, feathers ruffled. Of course, Fi did not tell Hagrid her Augurey was also quite old, almost as old as her, and had shared in her coven’s secret for eternal life. “Don’t try to deny it, Puck.”

Hagrid chuckled. “We got some here in the forests, but you don’t want to be going out there, Professor. Lots of creatures in the trees who best like bein’ left alone.”

Fi assured the man she would keep to her side of the forest bounds, though she inwardly reflected a measure of curiosity as to what dwelt so near the school. Hagrid left them at the gates and instead strolled toward a distant hut located on the grounds. Vector inquired about her time at Ilvermony and Fi redirected the conversation, speaking more upon her desire to experience Hogwarts instead of her fabricated education in America. The conversation gradually turned to the subjects and the school itself, and by the time McGonagall and Vector dropped her off in auxiliary staff quarters, Vector promised to lend her a new text on Arithmancy that Fi expressed interest in.

“ _Feh_ ,” Ever said once the door to her barren quarters shut. “Fluff and nonsense. Arithmancy.”

“I think it’s rather fascinating,” Fi responded as she turned to inspect her room. The space held an armoire with a scrolled top, a skinny bed, and little else. Fi decided much of her things would need to go into the office attached to her classroom, then wondered if she could possibly ask Dumbledore for a workspace of her own, though she would have to find a suitable reason for a Magical Theory instructor to want an area to experiment. “Muggles love numbers, too. They have all kinds of probability matrices that change via the introduction of various numbers.”

“Because numbers are just numbers to Muggles. Their probability contains no element of fate.”

“Which is why I find Arithmancy fascinating, though I have no talent for numbers myself.” Fi went to the window and pried at the latch, letting the glass swing outward. A summer breeze crept inside, and Fi had a rather nice view of the gorge, the bridges, and one of the taller towers. A heady sense of mystique lay upon the castle, thick like an invisible mist Fi couldn’t touch but could most certainly feel. She spent more time than necessary gazing outside, listening to babble of water far, far below and the winnowing of the wind. “Out you go to explore, Puck. Behave yourself with the owls, and mind the forest.”

The Augurey gave her head an affectionate peck before allowing himself to squeeze through the window’s allotted opening. For a moment, when his wings thrust outward, Fi was doused in green sunshine and she marveled at how pretty the light seemed when it rippled in verdant shades. Then Puck flew off, a streak of dark color against a blue sky, his mournful cry rising high in the air.

“Get me out of this insufferable box, Delphinia.”

Fi went to retrieve Ever and set the skull atop the box she so disdained, though Fi knew for a fact her mentor was rather pleased with the inner cushioning Fi had hand-stitched runes of protection and peace into. “I’m going to put you in my office when Dumbledore or Minerva shows me where it is.”

“You had better. I’ve no desire to sit in this pitiful little room with nothing else to see. Besides, _someone_ needs to look after you while you’re in this den of crackpots.”

Fi snorted. Privately she agreed that the room was a bit more spartan than she had expected, but Fi was pleased all the same with her appointments. Her goal in coming here had been safety, of course, over comfort. “Hogwarts is one of the best schools in the world, Ever.”

“The old ways are best.”

Sighing, Fi ran her hands over the skull’s cranium, utilizing the sleeve of her robe to polish a smudge on Ever’s gleaming gem. “So they are, Ever. So they are.”


	6. Treacle Tart & Unpleasant Fellows

**CHAPTER SIX**

**\- Treacle Tart & Unpleasant Fellows -**

 

When the lunch hour arrived, Fi set out from her quarters for the dining hall, following the directions of several helpful portraits all curious to meet the newest Professor and to take her measure. Secretly Fi thought their directions were off, as they took her down several flights of stairs and along two winding corridors before spilling her into a cobbled courtyard. Miffed, she found her way into the castle once more and was confronted with a tower full of roving staircases that delighted in utterly confusing Fi’s path. She had to wonder if the magics of the school recognized her from past attempts to infiltrate the grounds and considered her an intruder.

“Oh bloody hell,” Fi cursed when the stairs she stood upon detached from a landing and began to ascend. She clutched the railing and stomped a foot. “ _No_ , you ruddy steps! Down! Down!”

The stairs ignored her and continued to do as they pleased. Several of the portraits laughed uproariously at her plight, though one stern witch with a glass eye growled and snapped the rolled parchment in her hands.

“Someone tell Albus his new Magical Theory Professor is trapped on the stairs!”

“I’m not trapped—,” Fi tried to argue, but when the steps decided to rotate again, pulling her away, Fi thought she very well may be stuck. “…bugger.”

Fi sat on a step to wait until the stairs had had their fun. It seemed that one of the portraits had indeed gone for the Headmaster as he appeared soon enough, bemused by the hedge witch’s plight and her darkening frown. “Professor Dullahan. It appears you are in need of some assistance.”

Grumbling, Fi rose and brushed dust from her backside. “These stairs don’t seem to care for me much.”

“It takes practice to navigate them. Am I correct in assuming you were on your way to the Great Hall for lunch?”

“I was.”

He held out his arm, purple sleeve rippling. “Then allow me.”

Uncertain, Fi nonetheless stepped closer and looped her arm through his. “Thanks, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore urged them into a quick pace, which was unexpected from a man of his years, and Fi nearly succeeded in tripping on the hem of her robes. The steps didn’t impede the Headmaster as they’d impeded Fi, and soon they came to the ground floor, descending the final—and stationary—flight of stairs to a brilliant foyer filled with sunlight. The doors to the Great Hall were open and Fi’s gaze rose to the ceiling on instinct as she stared at the moving sky above.

“That’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Enchanted?”

“Yes, though the exact spell has been lost somewhere in the school’s history.” Dumbledore sighed, a sad sound of regret for something so beautiful to have slipped through their fingers. “Alas, we must simply enjoy what we have here.”

The Great Hall was a large space, the top of the hall dominated by towering windows and an empty dais where Fi guessed the Headmaster and staff would sit during the term. One table currently resided in the middle of the floor beneath a bevy of floating candles, laden with an afternoon meal and circled by a scant few faculty members. McGonagall lifted her gaze from the book laid open by her plate when Dumbledore and Fi approached.

“Albus. Did you get lost, Delphinia?”

“Not exactly.” Fi released Dumbledore’s arm and took a vacant seat by McGonagall while the wizard went to claim his spot at the table’s head. “I ran into a spot of trouble on the stairs.”

McGonagall’s lips quirked in what Fi gathered was a rare show of amusement. “I imagine you’ll have difficulty navigating the castle at first, not unlike our first years. I assure you it gets easier with time.”

Grimacing, Fi took her seat and was introduced to Filius Flitwick, a small wizard with a pointed hat and a book on his chair to boost him to the table’s level, and Quirinus Quirrell, who wore a violet turban and stuttered quite profusely when he greeted Fi. The rest of the seats at the table remained empty—aside from Dumbledore—as they settled in to eat, and McGonagall blinked as Fi heaped treacle tart onto her plate and dumped a copious amount of sugar into her tea.

Flitwick confessed a healthy interest in Fi’s education. “Albus tells me you went to Ilvermony,” he said, straightening his hat. “Which of the houses were you sorted into?”

Fi, being an old and clever witch with old and clever friends, had done her research on Ilvermony and had collected a few odd recollections and idiosyncrasies to lend her tale some authenticity. “Well, it’s not so much a sorting as it is being chosen,” she explained as she stirred her tea. “I couldn’t say the exact magic employed, but there are statues of the House symbols—Isolt’s Horned Serpent, the Wampus, the Thunderbird, the Pukwudgie—and each incoming student stands before all four statues and waits for one to choose them. Sometimes more than one statue will react, and a student will get to choose their House. Americans do so love their freedom of choice.” Fi spoke with a good-natured grin and sipped her beverage. “I was chosen by the Horned Serpent. I believe the equivalent here would be Slytherin.”

Flitwick made an interested sound. “Snape will be pleased to have at least one other Slytherin on staff, equivalent or otherwise.”

As there was no one at the table bearing the name ‘ _Snape_ ,’ Fi surmised she would meet this person at a later date. “Can I ask what Houses you belonged to?”

“Gryffindor,” McGonagall said with a proud jut of her chin. “I’m the Head of Gryffindor.”

“And I’m the Head of Ravenclaw,” Flitwick put in. “Pomona is the Head of Hufflepuff, but I assume she’s down in the greenhouses at this hour.”

“R-R-Ravenclaw,” Quirrell managed with a tremulous jerk of his hand. Honestly Fi wondered what had the man so nervous and worried he was in danger of dumping his pumpkin juice into his lap.

“And I was a Gryffindor, though that was a very long time ago now,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle, half-moon spectacles flashing. “The students won’t know what to make of Ms. Dullahan. I’m certain a large number of our youths have yet to give a thought to the schools of our neighbors.”

“A pity.” Though Fi had traveled much in her years, she had never entered any of the schools, aside from Hogwarts, and her wanderings never took her to the New World despite her interest in the Amazon and the wide ranges of North America. The various enclaves of wizarding society were quite secluded from one another.

Lunch commenced, a swift event with little fanfare as many of those gathered had tasks they needed to return to, and it ended with Fi and Albus eying one another over the last spoonful of sweet pudding in the tureen before Fi gave up and let the Headmaster have it. He planned to take her to the classroom and office that would be hers in the upcoming school year, but a tawny owl bearing a letter in need of correspondence stole his attention.

Fi was surprised when stuttering Professor Quirrell offered to take her there instead.

“If you don’t mind,” she responded as they both found their feet and started out of the Hall. “I haven’t had the chance to look around yet and the portraits seem to be having a laugh at my expense.”

Two aforementioned portraits located just outside the Hall chortled.

“It’s n-n-no problem,” Quirrell said as they mounted the stairs and began their ascent. “Your classroom is right b-b-by mine. I’m t-t-teaching D-Defense Against the Dark Arts this term. I’m a new teacher, here on A-Albus’s request.”

_Oh sweet Morgana, Albus hired him to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts? Those poor little blighters in his class._

The stairs proved just as miffed with Quirrell as they were with Fi, turning and twisting and redirecting their path wherever they could. Fi decided it best to find alternate routes about the castle that relied on less finicky magic, and Quirrell showed her how to access one of the narrower bridges leading across the open-air causeway to the other parts of the castle. This bridge was the most direct route between her quarters and the academic section of the school. They strolled along the bridge, sharing innocuous comments about the weather, Hogwarts, and their respective subjects. Fi guessed Quirrell was a nice enough sort, if terribly timid and smelling of garlic.

The bridge connected to a narrow tower of yet more stone steps, though these were of the permanent variety.

“T-Those lead into t-the dungeons,” Quirrell said as he gestured toward the lower spiral plunging into the torch-lit depths of the earth. “T-these lead to the c-classrooms.” He indicated the set rising upward and these they took, arriving on the next level, Fi opening the door into a dusty room that looked as if it saw intermittent use. They passed through the space into another passage, wider and far more spacious than some of the others, Fi’s eye lingering on the plaque denoting the staff room at the corridor’s head.

Her own classroom and connected office were just across the hall, the door open and the sunlit room awaiting occupant. The larger classroom meant for the Defense course was just next door, as Quirrell had said.

“Excellent,” Fi stated with a widening grin as she stood inside the classroom with Quirrell lingering behind her, wringing his hands. She imagined students in the space, sitting at the now empty desks, the music of quills scratching or quiet conversation, the view from the casement windows looking over the greenhouses in the bailey below and the Forbidden Forest in the distance. She had come to the school thinking only of refuge and—if she were to be completely honest—stroking her own pride by thwarting the castle that had denied her entry in her youth. Now, however, Fi found herself rather _excited_ to be at Hogwarts, to be trusted to teach others some of what she knew, to perhaps have the chance to learn something extraordinary.

She turned to face Quirrell and grinned. “Thank you, Professor.”

“P-Please, call me Q-Quirinus.”

When he extended his hand, she placed her own in it—and froze.

For all her life, Delphinia had lived in the rough and wild places of the world and had been raised by a flock of hard-headed women who turned Fi into a cunning, cautious hedge witch capable of evading Dark wizards and hunting parties. Her magic was an esoteric thing, as capricious as the luck granted by a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover, and more unwieldy than a provoked snake. She did not live her life by _certainties_ as many witches and wizards did, but rather by _instinct_ , as the old magics embraced that which was most primal in people—their fear, their love, their anger, their suspicion. Fi was a good hedge witch, maybe even the best, and quite possibly the last.

So when she touched Quirrell’s skin against her own, she heeded the voice in the back of her head that hissed in alarm. She felt the residue of Dark magic tingle against her flesh, and though Fi considered the Dark Arts in gradations of gray rather than in black and white, she knew to be leery of those who broke wizarding taboo. Dark magic did not necessarily denote a dangerous individual, but one couldn’t name a dangerous individual who _didn’t_ use the Dark Arts. Touching Quirrell was not like touching any of the dabblers she knew. There was something wrong with that man.

“Quirrell.”

Someone spoke from the threshold while Fi and Quirrell still clasped hands. The Defense professor all but leapt from his own skin as he jerked back and reached up to steady his turban. Fi turned to see the wizard who had appeared. He was a thin man, painfully so, much taller than Quirrell or Fi but shorter than Dumbledore, with a sallow complexion and black hair that framed his displeased face. A cursory glance would have dismissed him as an unpleasant sort, but the man had good bones and a confident stance, straight-backed and stiff-shouldered, the silver buttons of his black robes done up to his throat and down each wrist. To Fi, he had the look of a wizard who had thrown off a wretched illness and hadn’t yet regained his footing.

“P-P-Professor Snape!”

_Professor_? _Snape_? Fi hid her surprise and blinked, brushing her hand against her robes. After seeing two of the other House Heads, Fi had expected the Slytherin Head to be older—much older. Why, the wizard in the doorway was barely into adulthood and couldn’t be more than thirty or so. Fi knew it was hypocritical to judge one’s age based on appearances, as she’d been stuck in her mid-twenties for many, many decades, and yet she was shocked all the same by the presence of the young professor.

Snape’s black eyes flickered over her and Quirrell, narrowing. “What are you doing in here?”

“Professor Quirrell was showing me my classroom. I’m the new Magical Theory instructor.” Fi hesitated, then held out a hand. “Delphinia Dullahan.”

Snape didn’t shake with her, but he did give Fi a curt nod, a furrow appearing between his dark brows. “Ah, yes. Dumbledore’s newest hire. I am Severus Snape, the Potions Master.”

Fi’s eyes widened at that mention. Again, she wouldn’t have expected such a young wizard to hold one of the core curriculum classes at the school. Indeed, her friend Hideaki Shiroyama, the Potions Master of Mahoutokoro, was a doddering old man leaning heavily upon his hundredth birthday. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” It didn’t sound likewise. The word left Snape in a deliberate drawl and he curled his lip at Quirrell before turning heel and sweeping off to lurk somewhere else. Fi walked to the door and, leaning into the hall, watched the Potions Master walk away with his black robes billowing in his wake.

Quirrell had retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and began dabbing at his sweating face when he joined Fi at the threshold. “S-Severus is a t-terrifying man. A very dist-trusting sort. S-scares the students, I’ve been t-told.”

Fi hummed in thought, then grinned, tapping her fingers upon the castle’s stonework. “I don’t know. He seems rather interesting to me.”

At Quirrell’s aghast expression, Fi started to laugh.


	7. Moonstones & Suspicions

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**\- Moonstones & Suspicions -**

 

When night fell, Severus Snape strode the silent corridors of the castle, drifting much like one of the many resident ghosts, who took no notice of the black-clothed professor walking in their midst. He came to the stone gargoyle on the floor of the highest tower and muttered “Lemon drops,” to the sneering creature. The gargoyle leapt aside. Snape entered the revealed entrance and climbed the steps to the Headmaster’s office. He knocked on the door.

“Come in, Severus.”

Albus waited for him, leaning against his desk, hands folded before himself as he watched the flickering flames within the hearth. A dish of sweet candies sat on the desk at his side, and as Severus slid into one of the comfortable armchairs, Albus proffered the dish and offered him some. Snape shook his head.

“Have it your way, Severus. What have you discovered today?”

“Nothing of true note,” Snape admitted, hand coming to rest on his chin in thought. He too stared at the fire, at the snap and crackle of ever-burning wood. He inhaled the smell of hickory and it eased his less than tranquil mind. “My suspicions of Quirrell have yet to prove…fruitful, yet I’m convinced something of the man is not what it seems.” His lip curled, annoyed by his own lack of evidence. “I found him and your new hire in one of the classrooms this afternoon.”

“Oh?” Albus’s brow rose in interest. “I assume you mean Ms. Dullahan.”

“Yes. They were shaking hands.”

Severus saw Albus consider and dismiss this info. “Quirinus offered to escort Ms. Dullahan to her classroom.”

“Perhaps it was a ruse? An excuse to conduct a meeting?”

Albus shook his head, then stroked his beard. “While I found Quirinus’s offer puzzling, I do not sense anything malicious to Ms. Dullahan’s person. Their interaction at dinner was stilted at best.”

Severus wasn’t convinced. He knew well the guile an innocent face could hide, and while the new Magical Theory professor seemed harmless in appearance, she had sharp eyes and hadn’t balked at Severus’s intimidating presence. “Any person who seeks access to the school _this_ term is suspect, Headmaster.”

“Of course,” Albus demurred. He popped another candy into his mouth. “She is an Occlumens. An accomplished one.”

“And you don’t find that _suspicious_?” Severus demanded, taken aback. “Those who practice Occlumency are those who have something to _hide_.”

Albus shrugged. “Or she simply enjoys her privacy. Ms. Dullahan pretended she didn’t detect my intrusion but did offer a sense of her intent and of her gratitude. I have verified her references, several from wizards and witches I know personally who could not be Confounded or coerced into giving false praise. Griselda was among the references.”

Snape grimaced, waving a hand. “Madam Marchbanks is half senile, Headmaster. Her word means little.”

Albus frowned, and when his reply came, it was given in a strict tone. “I trust Griselda’s opinion very much, Severus. Old she may be, but foolish she is not. In our correspondence, she confided to me a certain disquiet in Ms. Dullahan’s behavior, though she would not say more upon the matter. She asked I do what I could for the woman.”

“This _disquiet_ could be a shift in Dullahan’s allegiance, if indeed that allegiance has not already been sold.” Snape’s brow furrowed, because there was something to the woman he did not like, something he could not place, like a missed step on the stairs. Harmless in and of itself, but abrupt and stumbling all the same.

“Ever suspicious, Severus.” Even though his voice carried an amused note, Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t twinkle. “We will be wary. We cannot afford to blindly offer trust in these times. I have the oddest inkling that I have met Ms. Dullahan before, and yet…I cannot say where.”

Albus moved, pacing. Snape glanced toward his desk—and there, glittering on the blotter, rested a red stone.

Yes, they would be wary indeed.

 

**~ oOo ~**

 

The skull on the shelf had been complaining for almost an hour.

On most occasions Fi found she liked her mentor’s nattering, especially when living alone in the wilds, but tonight the hedge witch was quickly growing frustrated with her mentor. Everild had been rather difficult for the last two weeks, ever since they’d taken up residence at Hogwarts.

“Ever, will you _kindly_ shut your trap?” Fi barked as she twiddled with the dials and levers on the heavy silver mirror. Her back ached from crouching for so long.

“This space will _never_ do,” Ever continued. “It does _not_ have the proper exposure to the celestial sphere!”

“It will when I am _finished_ ,” Fi retorted. “Merlin’s _backside_ this bloody mirror—!”

From his roost in the far corner, Puck shrieked and his cry echoed in the otherwise empty section of the castle. At least, Fi hoped it was empty. It was quite late, and she wasn’t sure how well the other professors would tolerate any of her midnight shenanigans.

She and her companions were in Fi’s newly appointed office, and though it had taken a number of days, she had last procured several items needed for the space. One such item included the awkwardly formed silver mirror with its many clicking dials and gleaming spheres. Fi gently aligned each item by hand, pausing to gaze out the window every so often at the bare sky before continuing. She tipped and tilted and fussed with the heavy mirror in the corner of her office until the face reflected the light of the moon and spilled the white glow upon the cleared section of the floor.

On the shelf behind the desk, Ever grumbled. “It would be better to work outside.”

“Of course it would—it would also be less private. I do not need a few hundred students for my audience.” Fi shut her eyes and infused the mirror with a measure of her Will, attuning it to the visible rotation of the moon and stars so the mirror would always rotate to perfectly reflect the light. She stood barefoot in her tunic and leggings, her black hair unbound and falling about her shoulders in tangled waves. Fi paced to the desk and picked up the bag there, rocks clicking together as she moved to the floor’s middle.

“Do not snap at me, girl. Impertinent thing.”

“I do not mean to be cross, I am simply tired.” Sighing, Fi dug into the bag and retrieved one of the unrefined crystal stones hidden inside. The mineral sparkled under the moon.

“You have set too many wards today.”

“I mean to finish tonight. Term starts tomorrow and I have spent a bit too much time idling about with my lesson plan and exploring.” Fi’s face scrunched. “Not that this blasted castle will cooperate. It _knows_ , Ever. I know it knows.”

“You’re as paranoid as Mathilda now.”

Fi set the rocks about the room and tossed the empty sack aside. “I pray I am not that old yet.”

Ever huffed, an odd sound to come from a skull, considering it could not breathe. Fi glanced toward the High Witch and at the warded shelf holding the bones, several warding runes, and a few of Fi’s favorite possessions: a stick of yew, a faded straw doll that had long lost its Mobility Charm, a thatch of unicorn hair freely given, Grigor’s broken pocket watch, a river stone bleached white by the stars. The items were simple but quite precious to Fi—even Ever, who she was considering stuffing back into the hat box for a bit if it bought her some quiet.

“You are still a bairn,” Ever said. “No matter the years, you will always be our bairn, Delphinia.”

A fond smile curved Fi’s mouth as she settled on the floor, sitting cross-legged with her hands pressed together. The hedge witch shut her eyes and gathered her thoughts, shooing out stray ideas and notions and the lassitude in her bones. She pictured clearly in her mind what she wished and spun her magic about the desire, showing it what must be done, then she let the magic go, allowing the energy to spill from her mind and attach itself to the stones arrayed about the room. As one, the crystals melted and pooled about the stone floor, spreading outward until the whole of the surface was encased in a smooth layer of sparkling white stone.

Fi flopped backward without getting up and stared at the ceiling. She had run into difficulty placing her own wards and enchantments on Hogwarts itself. The castle always sent her annoyed feedback, like a sharp slap on the wrist to quit mucking about in things she did not understand. Exhaling, Fi tapped a hand upon the crystal beneath her and instantly felt the frigid rock shift to gentle, crisp grass.

“And this is what could not wait until tomorrow?” Ever’s displeasure was obvious.

“I’ve place wards of intent in it, not just a nice aesthetic change,” Fi explained as she stretched and, at length, rose to her feet. “I mean to sleep here more often than not. I’m not particularly fond of my quarters, nor do I like the idea of being so far from you.”

“Good, then. You should ward the classroom as well.”

“I did the other night.” Fi swept her hand out and the crystal floor resumed its normal appearance. She went to the divan stationed under the largest window and laid back, making herself comfortable. Like any proper hedge witch, Fi could rest in the most unforgiving of spaces, could sleep on stone or wood or a bed of hay, but she had acquired a taste for some of the finer things while traveling abroad and the intricate embellishment on the divan spoke to that fact. “I don’t know about you, but I’m quite excited about tomorrow.”

“You would be.”

“Imagine all the new people you will get to spy on, Ever,” Fi teased.

The skull did not like that. “I am _not_ a spy. Besides, no one will tromp through this space aside from naughty little children.”

“I heard Filch muttering we should hang the naughty blighters from the dungeon ceiling by their thumbs.”

“Maybe we should have done that with _you_. You wouldn’t have become such a glib girl.”

Fi laughed.

A knock sounded on the door.

She froze, but nonetheless rose to her feet and gave the entrance to her office a leery look. She had nailed a rather simple Silencing rune to the back of the barrier, something that would catch her or Ever’s voice, but not something that would muffle Puck’s caterwauling or screams for help. Fi picked up the patched blanket laying across the divan and threw it over the mirror, dimming the light and hiding the contraption, before she went to the door.

To her surprise, Albus Dumbledore stood outside in her dark classroom, dressed in vivid emerald robes with a jaunty hat on his head. Fi eyed the hat with some envy, and not for the first time she made a mental note to get herself one. “Good evening, Headmaster.”

“Professor Dullahan.” He inclined his head. “I went first to your quarters and was surprised to find you were not in residence.”

Fi winced at his chiding look and stepped back, allowing Dumbledore entry. His gaze took in all there was to see, lingering long on the covered mirror, the floor, and Fi’s mismatched collection of objects. To him she imagined her shelf looked like some crow’s accrued hoard of strange bits and baubles.

“I find I sleep better here,” she confessed, though she didn’t tell him about the unsettled feeling she kept getting from her neighbor, who she suspected was Quirrell. Sometimes she heard voices bleeding through the walls in the middle of the night. She hadn’t told Ever about that either, for fear of the High Witch regaling her yet again on the paranoia of Mathilda Greengrove, a coven-sister who had spent much of her time shrieking about Muggle spies and invisible sprites stealing her thoughts.

“Oh? We could accommodate you with a different room if you need.”

“No, I’ll be perfectly fine here, Headmaster, thank you.” Fi gestured him toward one of the chairs before the desk and prayed he didn’t want tea. Her wand still wasn’t cooperating. She went to her own chair. “Was there something you needed?”

“Not precisely, no. I wanted to see how you were adjusting to life in the castle.” Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Fobley.”

Before Fi could ask what in the world a _Fobley_ was, a house elf wearing a toga appeared by the headmaster with a _crack_! of sound. Fi startled and almost toppled from the seat she had perched herself on.

“Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore?”

“Some tea, Fobley, for Professor Dullahan and I.”

“At once, sir!”

Fobley vanished with a deep bow. Fi watched the spot where the house elf had last been with some suspicion. More often than not, she had run afoul the little things and had been cursed with their particularly meddlesome magic.

“Where was I? Ah, yes. How are you adjusting otherwise, Ms. Dullahan?”

“Call me Delphinia or Fi, Headmaster,” she responded, uneasy.

“Fi, then.”

Fobley appeared again and Fi jumped, banging her knees on the underside of the desk. The creature gave her a puzzled look as she set a cup and saucer before Fi, then before Dumbledore. “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Fobley.” When Fobley vanished, Dumbledore chuckled and sipped his tea. “I take it you are not familiar with house elves.”

“Unfortunately,” Fi responded, reaching for her drink. “To answer your question, I believe everything’s going well so far. I have my lesson plan and am looking forward to teaching.”

“Good, good. We have a staff meeting in the lounge tomorrow morning where we’ll discuss normal routines and any specific rules the professors wish to be implemented. For sake of simplicity, I would like to have you as a representative of Slytherin along with Professor Snape.”

“Are there any specific responsibilities that come along with that role?”

“A few. In times of emergency we find it more expedient for each professor to be assigned to a House they are responsible for monitoring and protecting if need be. Students are also more comfortable confiding problems or asking for assistance from professors of their own house. If need be, you will need to hand out discipline to the Slytherins if Severus is unable to.”

Fi wrinkled her nose at the mention of discipline but only said, “Of course, Headmaster,” and set her cup aside.

Dumbledore gazed at Fi over his half-moon spectacles, folding his hands together in his lap, his look serene but calculating. “I would also like the discuss the arrival of a new student. Harry Potter will be matriculating this year.”

The weight he gave the name meant Fi was supposed to know of whom he spoke, but she did not. “Who?”

Dumbledore couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d stripped naked and had declared herself Queen of the Faeries. “ _Harry_ _Potter_ , Professor Dullahan. _The Boy Who Lived_.”

“What kind of a tacky moniker is that?” Fi asked before she could help herself, frowning. “Is that not a bit of an oxymoron?”

Dumbledore took a steadying breath and rubbed a hand over his face, blinking. “I assumed even wizards in America knew of his legend, but it seems I was mistaken. Harry Potter, Fi, is regarded by many as the savior of the wizarding world. Voldemort killed his family when Harry was but a baby. When the Dark Lord cast the Killing Curse upon Harry, it rebounded upon Voldemort, destroying him.”

_Supposedly destroyed him_ , came Fi’s grim thought. _The Dark wizards sniffing at my heels are far too enthusiastic to be serving a dead Dark Lord_. “So they call him _the Boy Who Lived_ because he survived the slaughter of his family? How wretched. Why would he wish to be reminded of that?” Frankly, Fi thought it would be a bit like her taking the title The Last Hedge Witch: a morbid and saddening reminder of what had been lost.

“I had come hoping to…warn you about his arrival, as many wizards and witches can be rather fanatical.” Dumbledore chuckled, and Fi suspected he was relieved. “But I see my warning is not needed. He was raised among Muggles, so I would ask you show him a measure of patience as he adjusts to life among us.”

“Naturally. I’ll help any student who requires it.” Fi leaned back in her chair and eyed the Headmaster, miffed for a reason she could not rightly name. Fi was both fascinated and terrified of children. She thought them quite like a brand new stationary set just waiting for letters to be written, but she worried about mucking the pages with sloppy handwriting if she wasn’t careful. “He is just a boy, is he not? I do not like that title, Dumbledore. I find it rather offensive and would ask others not to use it.”

He eyed her, speculating. Fi met the Headmaster’s gaze and didn’t look away, though her mind remained firmly locked behind iron walls. The reckless part of her considered letting him see just a bit of what she knew, of her ruthlessness and her hatred for those who abused the innocence of youth, but Fi kept a lid on her emotions, lest the Headmaster revoke her position.

He finished his tea. “I believe young Harry will appreciate your concern and disregard for his fame, Fi. He will face many trials in his life, and could use a bit of normalcy.”

Dumbledore and Fi said their goodbyes. The Headmaster made his way out of the room and Fi shut the door, her placid expression melting to a unhappy scowl. She flicked her wrist and the blanket tossed upon the mirror whipped back, flooding the room again with the ambiance of the moon, setting the crystal floor ablaze.

“The Boy Who Lived,” Ever seethed on the shelf. “What a load of harpy dung.”

Fi agreed.


	8. Bitter Brew & Prickly Potions

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**\- Bitter Brews & Prickly Potions -**

 

Fi couldn’t help but stare as the students began to flood the Great Hall.

She hadn’t been around so many people, let alone children, in a number of decades. Certainly she had been to Diagon Alley and London and various other cities, but in those situations she and those around her had always been strangers, fated to cross paths but to never interact or to remember one another. Here, she was not an unknown. She was a professor, and those filling up the four tables below the dais would be her students.

Taking a settling breath, Fi held herself still. _Crushing responsibility, here I come_.

She wore her best robes, a black pair trimmed with green to add weight to her supposed alignment with Slytherin house, and on Fi’s head rested one of those delightful wide-brimmed hats with a matching sash, a gift from Grigor that had arrived by owl that morning. Fi hoped to be able to repay the vampire some of the funds he’d loaned her over the years with her school earnings. She touched the hat’s brim with a fond smile.

When Fi had taken her seat that evening, she had been joined by Quirrell—and at the last second she found an excuse to rise, and to switch spots as the Potions Master had stepped onto the dais. Snape narrowed his eyes but didn’t mention the move, instead taking his seat with his usual efficient grace and flick of his robes. Fi congratulated herself on her ruse and for, once again, earning Snape’s menacing regard.

They hadn’t had an opportunity to exchange much more than the occasional nod or word of greeting when crossing in the halls or at the dining table. Truly, Fi and the others had been far too busy preparing for the term to gab about, but she felt the others had warmed to her somewhat, or were at least more familiar with her. Snape still looked unyieldingly stiff whenever he clapped eyes on Fi. Many a witch would be insulted, but Fi was curious, and maybe a touch anxious, to know what the Potions Master saw. She wanted to be above suspicion after all.

McGonagall looked up with surprise when Fi took Snape’s typical seat. “Good evening, Minerva.”

“Good evening, Delphinia. Are you prepared for classes to begin?”

“Oh, yes. I’m quite excited, actually.” Fi grinned and straightened in her chair, feet scuffing the floor. She was rather short. Many of the seventh years she saw picking accustomed spots on the benches were taller than her.

The students filled the tables, wearing black robes relieved with spots of red or blue or green or yellow. Fi looked over them and felt a number of curious gazes turn her way as well. They all seemed terribly young to her, fresh-faced and bright-eyed—adorable and rascally children, every last one of them, even the scowling ones sitting at the Slytherin tables, or those too-tall seventh years almost ready to take their place in the adult world. Many wizards past their majority were still children to Fi; even Professor Snape _was_ young, though he wore about himself a palpable cloak of maturity, some life experience that had aged him more than his physical years.

She had the urge to pinch chubby baby cheeks. _I will not tell Ever. I will never hear the end of it. I told her I would be a right menace._

McGonagall rose and Fi glanced at her. “The first years should be arriving.”

The woman marched off, nodding to those students who greeted her. Fi glanced by Minerva’s empty spot toward Dumbledore, who sat in his larger chair with one hand on his goblet, fingers tapping the stem. Flitwick left the table to retrieve a stool and an old, ratty hat, which he placed in front of the professors on the dais before returning to his seat. Fi stared at the hat, puzzled.

Dumbledore leaned ever so slightly in his chair to address her. “It is the Sorting Hat, Fi.”

“Sorting Hat?”

“Yes. You will see in a moment.”

McGonagall returned soon enough and the chatter dimmed as a line of a twitchy eleven year-olds was led toward the head of the hall. Fi knew which had been Muggle-born and which had not based on their glances about the Hall. Oh to be sure Hogwarts was a grand place, but the Muggle-borns were bowled over while the wizarding children were a bit more sedate, interested in the grander spells instead of the levitated candles or other such simple things.

Reaching the dais, McGonagall picked up a sheaf of parchment resting by the hat. “When I call your name, please step forward to be Sorted. Abbott, Hannah!”

Fi watched as a stumbling blonde girl with pigtails rushed forward, almost tripping on her hem in her haste. She sat on the stool and Minerva lowered the hat on her head—and not a moment later the hat shouted “HUFFLEPUFF!”

_Ahh, I see_ , Fi thought as the Hufflepuff table clapped and little Hannah went to join them. _Some type of Legilimens spells, though I would say something a bit older has been funneled into that tattered old thing. For the charm to remain after so many years, I would say the hat is tied to the life of every student it touches, taking little sips of their magic to fuel itself until the next year. Clever._

Fi noticed Snape was rather tense, though the man’s expression was as coldly passive as ever. She had no base of behavior to compare this mood against, so she simply directed her attention elsewhere and watched the Sorting.

At length, the name “Potter, Harry!” was called, and whispers ran through the Hall as one of the boys separated from the crowd and came forward. He was a little thing, awkward with a shock of black hair and poorly mended glasses perched on his nose. Fi had done herself a favor and read up a bit on Harry Potter that morning, not that she put much stock in what she assumed were puffed up accounts—but she could see the famed scar now, arching like a bolt of frazzled lightning from the left side of his hairline to piece part of his brow. Fi thought he looked rather like a pot that had been dropped and cracked.

_Poor dear._

Mr. Potter sat on the stool under the expectant eyes of the Hall while the Hat muttered and wiggled about in thought. “GRYFFINDOR!”

Those at the Gryffindor table erupted in applause and hoots of exaltation. Fi bit back a sigh at the fanfare being showered upon one student. She wondered if it would go straight to his head. For all she knew, Mr. Potter had spent his childhood pampered and totted about on the shoulders of his relatives. Maybe he liked being _The Boy Who Lived._

The Sorting concluded itself soon afterward, and Flitwick took the Hat away while McGonagall came to sit beside Fi again. Dumbledore rose—as did a gilded lectern, which the wizard stepped before, raising a hand to silence the babbling Hall. “Good evening, students. It is my great pleasure to welcome some of you back, and to welcome some of you here for the first time. Before the Feast commences, I have a few announcements to give. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you spells are forbidden in the corridors between classes, and has posted an extensive list of banned objects visible for viewing outside his office. The Forbidden Forest is off limits for all students—.” He directed a stern look toward the Gryffindor table. “—as is the third floor corridor, to any person who does not want to die a horrible death.”

_Well isn’t that just the warmest welcome_ , Fi thought with a wry frown. _Why, by Morgana’s foot, was I not told about the third floor corridor? I could have blundered my way in there. Bloody portraits probably would have led me there on purpose._

“I would like to make another announcement concerning the return of Professor Quirrell from his sabbatical abroad, though he will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year instead of Muggle Studies.”

A polite applause ensued.

“Let us also welcome a new member to our staff, Professor Dullahan, who will be teaching Magical Theory.”

Blinking, Fi smiled in silent recognition. More polite applause followed, a some mild whispering as the students undoubtedly wondered what kind of professor she would be. Fi hadn’t known Quirrell had been teaching here before. When they’d spoken, the man made it sound as if his situation at Hogwarts was new. Had he stretched the truth in a bid to show some kind of faulty empathy for Fi?

The Feast commenced with Dumbledore giving a bit of showmanship for the students’ benefits. Fi thought him to be a blatant actor, theatrical and, at times, cunning. Albus was an accomplished wizard who liked to pretend he was in his dotage. Sometimes Fi wasn’t utterly convinced he wasn’t, because the man said the barmiest things.

Fi set about eating her meal. Minerva was rather proud about something, grinning in that small, secretive way of hers. “I knew he’d be a Gryffindor,” she whispered to Dumbledore. “He’ll be just as brilliant and brave as Lily and James. He looks just like his father.”

Reaching for her pumpkin juice, Fi tempered the urge to roll her eyes, because she knew wizarding society often compared children to their parents. Blood was paramount, incredibly so. Surnames were an indication of character, an indication of allegiance, a way for others to suddenly remember your great-great-grandfather once embarrassed their fifth cousin at a summer party a hundred years ago. Arranged marriages were common. The importance of family could not be underestimated.

For the first time in a long time, Fi thought of her own mother. She sipped her juice—and promptly cringed.

“Merlin’s _pants_ —what is that?!” she choked, almost tipping the goblet over in her haste to set it down. Tears welled in her eyes as fire raced down her throat and the foulest of tastes filled her mouth. The other professors looked at her with some alarm. “What _is_ that?!”

It was Snape of all people who snatched the goblet up and looked at the contents. His lip curled into a sneer as he did so. “You are sitting in what is customarily _my_ seat, Dullahan. The house elves have seen fit to give you _my_ potion.”

“Oh sweet Morgana on the bloody boats of Avalon,” Fi breathed as she bent at the waist and rested her head on the table’s edge. Her shoulders heaved and she thanked the fates she didn’t vomit at the head table. “I’m _dying_.”

“You are not dying.”

“But the _taste_ —.” Fi choked, wheezing, and Minerva gave her back an uncertain pat. “Like licking the backside of a dragon.”

“It will pass.”

“I’m _dying_ —.”

Snape grew irritated with Fi’s melodrama and switched their goblets. Fi wasn’t sure she could stomach anything else after the absolute vile potion, but she took a helpful mouthful of pumpkin juice. She knew it had been meant for her because of how sweet it was. _The house elves really do notice everything, don’t they?_

The Potions Master lifted a brow—and then downed the whole of his potion without so much as a flicker of disgust. Fi was sweating and her hearted galloped, yet Snape appeared wholly unmoved.

_Now that’s just showing off._

Fi drank the whole of her pumpkin juice and waited for a refill, dousing the acidic burn curling inside her stomach as the others returned to their meals. Several of the students at the long tables noticed Professor Dullahan’s odd fit, but they thought little of it. After all, every year at Hogwarts was filled with peculiarities, the least of which being an odd witch at the dais sputtering over her food.

 

 

Fi meant to turn in early that evening so she would wake refreshed for her first bout of classes in the morning. She laid down on her divan, inhaling deeply, shut her eyes—and simply could not sleep. No matter how she tried to calm her mind, it continued to hum like a hive of furious pixies, and the muscles of her legs practically begged for Fi to rise and pace. She did so, much to the irritation of Puck and Ever.

“Will you knock that off?” Ever complained. “You’ve more energy than a herd of hippogriphs.”

“I’m not sure what’s wrong. Perhaps I am nervous?” Fi considered sitting down and attempting to cast a calming Charm, but decided against, as it was more likely than not she would fail to concentrate long enough to bring the proper magic to bear. “Maybe I should go pace the grounds?”

Ever huffed.

Fi continued to bounce to and fro in her office until a knock sounded upon her door and she pounced upon the desired distraction, thinking it was the Headmaster again. She was surprised to come face to face with the persnickety Potions Master, whose eyes flickered over the room much like Dumbledore’s had, the scowl on his face showing he was not impressed with what he saw.

When Fi did little more than stare at the man, he spoke. “Professor Dullahan,” he drawled, reaching into the interior of his black robes to retrieve a slender flask of purple liquid. “The Headmaster told me I would find you here, rather than your quarters.”

“My neighbor gives me the creeps,” Fi blurted out before she could stop herself. She swore in her thoughts, frustrated.

“Indeed.” If Snape thought her declaration strange, he showed no indication of it. He proffered the flask with an indolent flick of his wrist. “You will not be able to sleep after imbibing the potion at the Feast. Your reaction proved you to be rather…sensitive to the potion’s effects.”

“What was in that goblet?” she asked, though Fi had her suspicions. She had created more potions than a slew of Potions Masters over the years and was intimately familiar with most. The subject of modern potions had the greatest crossover with the old magics Fi practiced.

“Livening Libation.”

“Ah,” Fi replied, thoughts clicking into place. “I remember now. You are on patrol tonight. It makes sense you would need something to stay awake.” Though, Fi wondered why the house elves in the kitchens had seen fit to serve it to the man, as if he took the potion as a regular dose. Curious.

Snape said nothing, only held out the potion in his hand with a touch more irritation. “Take this, Dullahan, I do not have all night.”

Irked by the waspishness of his tone, Fi did as told and turned the flask over in her hand, observing how the moonlight shone through the glass and highlighted the texture of the purple liquid. “Dreamless Sleep.”

Surprise flitted through his black eyes for the barest of instances, then vanished. “May this serve as warning to _not_ usurp my seat in the future.”

Fi couldn’t help but smirk at Snape’s venomous tone. “You are quite the prickly sort, aren’t you?”

A muscle in his jaw jerked.

“Perhaps you should have drunk the juice the elves gave me. I prefer it with an excess of sugar, you see. Perhaps it would have sweetened you up a bit.”

Snape looked positively murderous and unsure what he should say in reply, a slight flush rising in his otherwise pallid face. Fi had seen wizards like him before; brimming with anger and fury and bitterness, wrapping himself in all that wrath to hide the truth of himself from the world. Fi had little care for the truth of him. He had yet to insult her, but it was a near thing, a dance upon the knife’s edge, and Fi imagined Severus Snape would not like to see what happened if he goaded true ire from the hedge witch. She was not there to soothe the feathers of the prideful young man, but she would enjoy provoking him every so often, not unlike poking a livid bruise just to see what it felt like.

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” she said, watching as he silently seethed. Fi jostled the potion. “This was kind of you. I will see the flask cleaned and returned tomorrow.”

She shut the door then, before Snape could formulate a response, and she heard him storm away with a quick snap of his heels turning on the stone floor. Chuckling, Fi returned to her divan and sank onto it, uncapping the Potion for Dreamless Sleep.

“You know better than to provoke a man capable of poisoning your food, Delphinia,” Ever chided from the shelf.

“If he is capable of finding a poison I have not built an immunity to, he is welcome to try.” Fi poured a dab of potion onto her index finger, testing the consistency before smelling and tasting the draught. It tasted as she remembered it should.

“Don’t be a catalyst for your prospective murderer to get creative.”

Fi downed the liquid and laid back, setting the empty flask on the floor by her shoes. “If Severus Snape murders me, I will come back to haunt him, I promise.”

Ever sighed, and Fi dropped into a blank slumber.


	9. Finger Pointing & Wand Waving

**CHAPTER NINE**

**\- Finger Pointing & Wand Waving -**

 

Fi tapped an off-beat song against her desk as she waited for the hour to change.

Her classroom sat empty, patient, ready to be filled with students either eager for knowledge or just bored enough to drag themselves to class. The faint strains of Quirrell’s muddled stuttering was audible through the wall separating their two classes, and Fi wrinkled her nose at the memory of having to sit next to to the man this morning and make polite conversation. Snape had ignored her.

She poked her wand laying on the desk’s surface and was relieved it didn’t belch sparks. Fi wouldn’t wield it in a class full of children, but it was best if they _saw_ it, if they associated the occasional accidental use of her magic to the tangible presence of a wand in the room. Besides, her first class would be comprised of first years, and they were not nearly as difficult to fool as knowledgeable adults.

Quirrell’s class ended soon enough. The scuffs of chair legs being dragged on the floor sounded, followed by the dulled murmur of voices escaping into the halls. Fi straightened in her seat and blanked her expression, hoping for something mildly stern but approachable, a face worthy of a professor rather than a curious hedge witch. Several minutes passed before her students began to enter, poking in hesitant heads before they spotted their professor sitting at her desk and went in search of their own. Fi counted roughly twenty eleven year-olds, dressed with red or green accents on their new robes, sidling into opposing sections along the room’s aisle.

Puck shrieked in her adjoined office and many of the children startled, paling.

_Jumpy little things._

Grinning, Fi rose. “Sorry. That would be my Augurey saying hello, as it were. Welcome to Magical Theory. I will be your instructor, Professor Dullahan.”

A general rumble of greetings was returned to her.

“Yes, well, I should probably take attendance.” Fi plucked the scroll she had been provided by Minerva off the desk and unfurled it, clearing her throat. “Lavender Brown?”

“Present.”

“Millicent Bulstrode?”

“Present.”

“Vincent Crabbe?”

Fi received a grunt in answer.

“Tracey Davis?”

“Here.”

“Seamus Finnigan?”

“I’m here.”

“Gregory Goyle?”

Another grunt.

“Hermione Granger?”

A bushy-haired Gryffindor in the front row straightened. “Present, Professor.”

“Daphne Greengrass?”

“Present.”

“Neville Longbottom?”

A plump boy by the girl named Hermione spoke. “P-Present.”

_Oh, please don’t stutter like Quirrell. I couldn’t take anymore of it._

“Draco Malfoy?”  _Malfoy? So they're still around?_

Near the back, a pointy little blond boy flanked by Goyle and Crabbe jerked his chin. Fi could see a touch of aristocracy about him and knew he’d grow to be a handsome man one day. “Present.”

“Theodore Nott?”

“Here.”

“Pansy Parkinson?”

A brown-haired Slytherin girl answered in the affirmative before turning in her chair to whisper to Draco again.

“Parvati Patil?”

“Present.”

“Harry Potter?”

A fissure went through the rest of the class when they heard his name. Fi was one of the last classes of the day, so she knew they must have heard the name several times earlier, but it seemed they were not quite used to it. The skinny black-haired boy sitting by a gangly red-head shrunk into his chair an inch or so before answering. “Present.”

“Dean Thomas?”

“Here.”

“Ronald Weasley?”

“Here!”

“Please do not shout, Mr. Weasley. Blaise Zabini?”

Zabini answered, the Slytherins snickering at Ronald’s reddening ears.

With attendance complete, Fi tossed the scroll aside with a relieved sigh and summoned a breath to fortify herself, equal parts nervous and anxious. “Now that we are all accounted for, we can get started. Does anyone have any questions for me before the lecture begins?”

The girl in the front row raised her hand. “Yes, Ms. Granger?”

“There’s only one text required for this course. Are there any additional texts you can recommend?”

Blinking, Fi studied the girl. _Well, that’s unexpected. Is she actually asking for more assignments?_ “Ah, if you find yourself interested in Magical Theory, I would recommend _Theories of the Continuum_ by Radistin Ramble, _Alchemical Compositing_ by Thrush Windenheim, _The Theory of Origins_ by Grigor Todorov, and the _Legedarium of Olde_ , compiled by Amos Grant.”

Ms. Granger’s dutifully scratched out the titles and authors on a piece of parchment, but her quill paused upon the final mention. “Why a book of legends, Professor?”

“Because, Ms. Granger, legends arise from granules of truth. A critical mind can assess the truth behind a story’s beginnings and decipher what the legend is meant to teach. In that teaching, one can—possibly—discover something our ancestors imparted long, long ago.”

Her quill began scratching again in a fervor and Fi felt strangely self-conscious, so she moved on. Dean Thomas raised his hand and she selected him.

“Is it true you didn’t attend Hogwarts? You went to a school in America?”

“Ilvermorny, yes, though I’ve been assigned as a representative of the Slytherin house for simplicity’s sake. It is the closest to my Ilvermorny house, Horned Serpent.”

A collection of quiet groans threaded through the accumulated Gryffindors. Mr. Malfoy spoke up without waiting to be called upon. “My father says Hogwarts is the very best school—second only to Durmstrang.”

Fi shrugged, lifting and dropping one shoulder. “I wouldn’t recommend Durmstrang, Mr. Malfoy. I know for a fact they beat children who speak out of turn.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened and Seamus Finnigan snickered.

“But there’s none of that here at Hogwarts, and I welcome a healthy discussion in my classroom. I would like to begin my class by asking you all a simple question: what _is_ magic?”

Granger’s hand rose an instant later—and so did Fi’s brow. “You didn’t give my question much thought, Ms. Granger. Are you sure you have the answer?”

Her hand wavered, uncertain, but she kept it up all the same.

“Very well. What is your answer?”

Granger dropped her hand and took a breath. “Magic is a phenomenon that alters the fabric of reality as directed by a spell.”

_That’s almost verbatim what Albus said. How amusing._ “Correct,” Fi said, Granger’s expression brightening before the professor went on. “Correct in the same way of simply describing air as something we breathe. But what is air? Is it not a composite of molecules and atoms, gases and particles of dust, water vapor and nitrogen?”

The children who had been born into wizarding households and had never touched a Muggle science textbook were utterly baffled by what Fi said, while others—like Granger and, to an extent, Potter—were less confused. “Magic is much like air in that you can simply describe magic as magic, but there is much more to it, levels most wizards have and will never understand. My goal in this class is to persuade your young minds into thinking critically about the magic you learn at this school, to question the fundamentals and to come by better comprehension of the _why_ behind the miraculous feats you cast with a flick of your wand.”

Glassy eyes stared at Fi as she filled their tired brains with fluff and Fi smiled, folding her hands behind her back. “Perhaps a bit of a demonstration where we can put our thinking minds to the test? Does anyone have an apple? Or something similar?”

Greengrass had an apple. She pulled it from her bag and held it up, a delicate flush to her pretty face.

“Excellent. Put it on the floor before me, would you?”

She did so, then quickly retreated to her seat. The students wriggled in their chairs to look at the apple, though Fi noted some of the Slytherins pretended they weren’t interested. “Does anyone know any spells yet? Something light and simple. Please don’t destroy my classroom, I’ve only been here a day.”

Light chuckles ensued as Granger raised her hand again. “Thank you. Would you be capable of casting something on the apple for me?”

“Yes, Professor.” She concentrated, brows drawing together as she held her wand out before herself, and stated. “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

The apple wobbled, unwilling, then began a begrudging ascent into the air toward Fi’s knees. Careful as to not elicit suspicion, Fi tapped the apple and it rose faster, steadier, until it was at Fi’s eye level and high enough for the other students to see. “Very nice, Ms. Granger. Err, five points to Gryffindor?”

Distantly, Fi felt a faint pluck of magic respond to her voice. _I believe they have some kind of benevolent Taboo upon those hourglasses. Interesting._

“Now, we can all see that the apple is floating—levitating. To understand magical theory, we can break down events into simple steps, and we assess influencing factors called _variables_. First, we had an apple. Second, we applied a spell. Finally, the apple floats. What we mean to discover is the how and why of what the Levitation Charm is influencing to accomplish that final step.” Fi paced by the apple and eyes either followed her or remained on the fruit. “Mr. Weasley, can you guess _how_ the Levitation Charm is making the apple float?”

The red-headed boy swallowed as he looked up at the professor standing at the side of his desk—though, admittedly, he didn’t have far to look. “Um, it’s, um, it makes it really light?”

“That’s a good guess, Mr. Weasley, but let us think more critically on this matter. What gives something its weight? Mr. Goyle?”

Goyle blinked small eyes at Fi.

“No answer, Mr. Goyle?”

He just continued to blink and Granger bobbed in her seat, reaching for the ceiling. A tinge of annoyance slid through Fi at the sight, but she let it go, knowing the girl only wanted to prove herself in her first year. “Mr. Potter, how about you? Do you know what makes something heavy? I was told you went to school with the Muggles, and they make a study of this sort of thing quite often.”

Like his Weasley neighbor, Potter squirmed under Fi’s direct attention. She noted the tape on his glasses and the little fractures in the lenses. “Well, they taught us about…about gravity and mass making things heavy.”

Fi smiled, then paced along the other side of the aisle. “Very good. Gravity and mass are two factors that change the weight of an object. Gravity is…well, I will explain it in simple terms. Gravity is what draws objects with mass together. It’s what makes the stars in space, drawing together all those bits of dust and gas that makes those pretty lights in the sky. For us, gravity is what makes things fall down.” Fi brushed Bulstrode’s bag from the desk and it hit the floor. “See? Now there’s a whole host of different factors that affect the exertion of gravity upon an object, but let us get back to our apple and its mass.”

Millicent Bulstrode grumbled as she bent at the waist to pick up her bag and Fi returned to the head of room. “Mass is, simply, how dense an object is. It is why a Galleon weighs quite a bit more than a Sickle, though they are comparable in size.”

Pockets were rifled and students brought out the coins. Fi noticed Weasley glancing about with worried eyes, and so she walked by him, speaking, and slipped him two coins from her own pocket. “Gold is much heavier than silver. It’s _denser_. It has more _mass_. So, in order for the Levitation Charm to work, it must take into account the major factors of gravity, and mass. Of course, there’s other issues and resistances, but we will concentrate upon these two things for the sake of this argument. For magical theory, we now understand in order for this apple to float—.” She gestured at the fruit. “The Levitation Charm must affect its gravity and possibly its mass. I say _possibly_ because in this instance the mass is not being affected because the apple has not changed. It’s still a whole apple. No holes, no missing bits.”

Fi was relieved to hear quills scratching as they took notes. _I pray this isn’t too advanced for eleven year-olds. What do they even understand? I haven’t a clue._ “Ms. Granger, tell me: how is the Levitation Charm working?”

Granger seemed startled to have been called on without raising her hand but smiled all the same, pleased with herself. “It’s negating the gravity of the apple.”

“Yes.” Fi turned to face the rest of the class. “This may seem a bit silly to you all, but if you have been paying attention to the discussion, then you will have gained a better understanding of how the Levitation Charm operates. You have become more _efficient_ in its casting because you understand what you are directing your magic to accomplish, rather than just flicking your wand about praying for the best. _Intent_ is often more important than any motion of your wand or any pronunciation of a spell. As you progress through Hogwarts, you will find that applying what you learn in Magical Theory to your other classes will help you accomplish greater feats, better and more complicated magics. It will help you learn to cast silently and, if you are particularly competent, without your wand.”

Fi leaned back on her desk, seventeen watching faces turned in her direction. “Did you, for instance, know that the wizards of Uagadou prefer to not use wands? They use hand gestures instead to direct their incantations.” She demonstrated by exaggerating her own magic and pointing two deliberate fingers at the apple. It zipped forward to land in her palm, earning a small chorus of gasps. “See?” Fi said, taking a bite of the fruit. “Understanding what magic is and how it works, even the most ordinary of spells, will help you become better witches and wizards. For today’s assignment, I want you each to choose either a spell you know or one that you are learning and examine how that spell works. I want you to write, oh, let’s say twelve inches on what you discover. That should keep it nice and concise.”

More scribbling ensued as they noted their assignment down.

“Now, let’s move on and start reading the first chapter of your text….”

 

 

When class came to a close, Fi took a breath and dismissed her students, feeling pleased with herself. Of course, she would have to wait and see how they fared on the assignment to better gauge their understanding of the material, but Fi felt confident. For a moment, she allowed herself to sit and reminisce, imagining an old grove thick with violet heather, her mother’s thin hands plaiting Fi’s long hair as the woman tried to drill what the Muggles would later call physics into Fi’s rather dense skull.

_Why does that memory come to mind?_

“Professor?”

Fi started, looking around to see the Weasley boy standing on the other side of her desk, an uncertain expression on his freckled face. Potter hovered behind him, waiting.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley?”

He extended his hand and Fi did the same, accepting the Galleon and Sickle she had slipped him earlier. “Thanks, Professor.”

“You’re welcome.”

Both he and the black-haired boy turned to chase their classmates from the room, but Fi called the latter back. “A moment, Mr. Potter.”

The thin boy froze. He turned in increments as if expecting to be berated, and Fi again looked at the gruesome scar on his head and at the fragile set of his bones. _Do they not feed this child?_ “Yes, Professor?”

Gesturing him nearer, Fi waited for the boy to muster his nerve and approach the desk. Many first-years were tentative around their professors, but something about the new Magical Theory professor evoked a special disquiet, a strange weight to her gaze that made it difficult for them to meet her eyes.

Fi stretched and, before Potter could jump away, tapped a firm finger against the bridge of his glasses. The boy flinched, then realized the scratches and chips in his eye-wear had vanished, as well as the bit of tape holding the two halves together.

“Off you go then, Mr. Potter.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Fi folded her hands together and watched the boy run after his classmates, and once the door shut behind him, she hummed under her breath, rubbing her fingertips. “He has a touch of the old magic about him. Interesting.”

From her office, the Augurey screeched.

“Quite right, you daft bird.”


	10. Weasley & Weasley

**CHAPTER TEN**

**\- Weasley & Weasley -**

 

Fi soon learned that if you taught no classes in the afternoon, you spent your night roaming the corridors.

Two days after the start of term was Fi’s free period, in which she did nothing more than host office hours and spend the afternoon working on her wards or reading books she borrowed from Madam Pince’s library. She had two students pop by for consultations: the first-year Hermione Granger who asked a plethora of questions about the feasibility of various spells, and a sixth-year Slytherin who said he had heard from one of his classmates that she could preform wordless spells and wanted some pointers.

Fi rather hoped her little displays of magic wouldn’t arouse suspicion in the faculty.

After dinner, it was Fi’s turn in the rotation to patrol the corridors. She returned to her office with the grimness of a prison inmate awaiting sentencing, watching the warm glow of the sun slip over the lawns and dive behind the eerie trees, stretching wide shadow toward the castle as torches sputtered to life along the grounds. Curfew came, the clock tower chimed the hour, and Fi slipped from her sanctuary with a weary sigh, sealing the office behind her as she went.

_This will be a nightmare._

Exploring the castle at night proved as onerous as it was during the day. Fi set out without any true destination in mind, robes rippling about her lithe frame, thinking of her lesson plans and, in the abstract, the Masked Ones. Hogwarts soon convoluted her path, stairs switching, door leading to all the wrong places. At one point Fi wound up in the dungeons, though she hadn’t headed in that direction. She walked the lightless passage, listening to the _plop! plop! plop!_ of dripping water.

“The bloody students are less likely to hurt themselves than I am,” Fi muttered to herself as she sought the stairs that would lead her out of the dungeons again. She whacked a shin on a serpentine bench bordering one corridor. “Bugger.”

Five minutes later she almost ran headlong into Professor Quirrell.

“My apologies,” she told the cringing man, fighting the urge to cringe herself. He had his wand illuminated and it cast light over both professors and a generous swath of the dungeon, though his face remained in shadow from the lay of the turban. _I thought I was the only one with patrol tonight?_

“T-t-that’s alright, Delph-ph-ph—.”

“Fi,” she said, holding up a hand. “Just Fi is fine.” _Spare me, please._

Quirrell nodded, relieved. Fi had the morbid desire to see how exactly the man managed to teach his class, and she figured the next time he had a lesson, she would linger in the hall and listen to how he managed. She had the greatest sympathy for the poor dear, but she couldn’t understand why he would subject himself to this kind of environment when he jumped at the sight of his own shadow and couldn’t string words together.

A second light joined theirs and Fi winced when Professor Snape appeared from a corridor she hadn’t even realized to be there, hidden in the dark as it was. He glowered upon recognizing Fi and Quirrell.

“Another midnight meeting?”

_Another_? Fi shook herself with no small measure of frustration. She was quite cold from mucking about in the dungeons and was annoyed she had been told it was her responsibility to patrol tonight when there was obviously some kind of miscommunication. “Why are you awake?” she growled, flicking a look at both Quirrell and Snape. “It’s my night to patrol on the schedule.”

“So it is, Dullahan.” Snape said her name with bitterness. “Which makes me curious why you and Quirrell would be meeting outside my private potions store.”

Fi brightened. “You have a potions store?” She craned her head to look by him, but with a flick of his wand, Snape slammed the door in the corridor behind him closed, locking it. Fi pouted. “If you didn’t want to share you could have just said so.”

“I do not _share_.”

As the brief conversation unfolded, Quirrell seemed to struggle with centering himself, and at length he managed to stutter a hasty apology, taking his leave. Snape made to step by her.

“Wait—.”

His flat eyes snapped to hers, narrowed and hard.

“How do I get out of here? This bloody castle—.”

The Potions Master moved on without a word, flicking his wand for the added benefit of returning Fi to the miserable dark. “Professor—Snape! _Snape_!” When no response came, Fi slouched. “Bugger. He can be a right prat.”

 

 

To Fi’s delight, the castle appeared to grow bored of her and eventually deposited Fi back on the upper levels. She stumbled out of a passage hidden behind a rather ugly portrait of a warty magizoologist, covered in cobwebs and flushed from hiking up what had been a near vertical set of stairs. She would never admit so aloud, but her sudden exploration of the hidden tunnel had been rather exhilarating.

“Yes, well, back to it then,” Fi muttered, breathless, unsure of where exactly she was. The magizoologist grumbled about being shaken, then dropped into a heavy doze again. Brushing off her robes, Fi decided to head where the moonlight shone brightest through the windows, as she had had enough of bumbling about and stubbing her toes in the dark. She could have summoned a light to follow her, but knew from experience any wizard with any knowledge would find that peculiar and would want to know how she accomplished it.

Walking, Fi heard a snicker of smothered amusement. She paused, thinking one the portraits was having another laugh at her, and the sound came again. The hedge witch mustered her intent, lips pursed, then waved her hand toward her feet to silence their movement. Fi stepped around the next bend in the corridor, and she had no problem spotting the two boys hiding behind a suit of armor, smothering their mirth as they bent over a bit of parchment and whispered to one another. The open bag at their feet gave off a pungent odor.

Fi snuck behind the pair. She leaned over the boys, red-heads with freckled noses wearing Gryffindor cloaks over their night things, short and with baby fat still clinging to their stocky frames. They couldn’t be much older than her tiny first-years and were definitely younger than the class of moody fifth-years she’d taught the day prior. The parchment held between them proved to be some kind of map, a clever thing, the ink upon its grubby face in constant flux as tiny feet meandered about the drawn floors, little flags written above them.

_Some kind of Trace,_ Fi decided, a bit envious she didn’t have a map like that. _Tied to the castle itself, I would say._

_Severus Snape_ and _Quirinus Quirrell_ still mucked about in the dungeons, the former circling his stash of ingredients labeled _S. Snape’s Storeroom_ while Quirinus seemed to keep coming back to that same corridor, lingering. Fi wondered if he was lost, and why his name appeared smudged on the map.

The floating labels all jostled for position near where the various dormitories lay. As a Professor, Fi knew where all the dormitories were in case of an emergency—or, in this instance, if she needed to return chortling boys to their beds—though she had only been issued the password for the Slytherin common room, given that it was her assigned house. She could spot all her first-years tucked tight in their beds, though she wondered who Peter Pettigrew was, as he hadn’t been on her roster.

Dumbledore was in his office, Minerva in her quarters. Fi didn’t know why it made her rather giddy to see _D. Dullahan’s Office / Rooms,_ but she liked to think it meant the castle begrudgingly accepted her presence here. She did not, however, like that _Everild Everdeen_ appeared as well and made a mental note to improve her wards.

It took a minute for Fi to study the many complex folds of the paper and find the corridor in which they stood. The two boys were _Fred Weasley_ and _George Weasley_. Fi grinned when she realized she herself did not appear on the map, her Will greater than the map’s Tracing Charm, which was undoubtedly the reason behind the boys’ rather lax behavior. They seemed to be discussing the best route to _A. Filch’s Office_.

“Fascinating,” Fi whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Oh, you pair must drive Filch absolutely spare.”

Both Weasleys froze, then whipped about, the one named Fred smacking his head on the armor’s greaves. George clutched the map to his chest.

“Who—?!”

“Professor Dullahan,” Fi said with a small smile. “It’s very nice to meet you both.”

Both Weasleys looked at her, then at the map, then back again, growing paler and more flustered as they did so.

“That is the niftiest thing I’ve seen in a while,” Fi told them with a nod toward the map. “But I’m afraid I won’t show up on it, boys. I’m Unplottable as it were.” She arched a brow. “Did you make it?”

Both gave their heads a shaky jerk.

“Found it in Filch’s office—,” Fred managed.

“Our first year,” George finished.

“Fascinating.” Lowering her hand, Fi wiggled her fingers a bit, waiting, and George reluctantly handed the map over. She sent her fingertips across the parchment’s surface and sensed within it a vast network of very precisely laid Charms and perhaps a modified Developing Potion, but nothing beyond the skill of a clever schoolboy or girl. Nothing Dark. Her reservations about the Dark Arts were far less stigmatizing than other witches and wizards, but Fi would not lay temptation in a child’s hands. “Who is Peter Pettigrew? I didn’t see him in class.”

“Peter—?”

“Oh—.”

“We’re fairly certain he’s a ghost up in our tower,” Fred said, glancing at George.

“Haven’t seen him around, but Flitwick says ghosts don’t always want to be seen, yeah?”

“And he’s been about since we started using the map.”

“Hmm.” Fi turned the parchment over, lost in thought. “I wonder if I could recreate something similar to help me get about….”

The twin Weasleys continued to stare at the hedge witch, unsure what to make of the peculiar woman muttering to herself. At length, Fi handed the map back to George and nudged the bag with her foot, plucking at the flap to peek inside. “What are these, then?”

“Err—.”

“Well, you see, ma’am, we were just on our way to _return_ these to Mr. Filch—.”

“Yes, return them. Dungbombs, they are.”

“And, we must have missed curfew. Right shame, isn’t it, Fred?”

“That it is, George.”

Fi exhaled, and reached into the bag to extract one of the Dungbombs, wrinkling her nose when she noticed the dirt now clinging to her skin. “I suppose I should confiscate these—but I think we’ll _return_ this one. Come on, then, you two.”

Grabbing the bag by the straps, Fi hoisted it up and held the foul object away from herself as she marched down the corridor with both Weasleys trailing in silent shock. Filch’s office was near enough, and Fi swatted aside the paltry wards outside the entrance, confident neither red-head would recognize the motion. She jerked open the door to the dark, musty smelling office. “What do I do with this? Just give it a throw?”

Fred gave an uncertain nod.

Fi tossed the Dungbomb inside and quickly shut the door. A moment later, a faint _hiss_ issued somewhere within the confines to indicate the bomb had gone off.

Both young boys were staring wide-eyed and gobsmacked at Fi, a hint of anxiety swirling in the depths of their expressions as they tried to make sense of what had occurred. “He called my Puck a wretched bird,” Fi calmly explained. “Poor Puck only shrieked at his nosy cat when it came snooping where it did not belong. Anyway…lead me to the Gryffindor House, if you would.”

They nodded, then stumbled into action, showing Fi the proper path while whispering urgently to one another. Fi began to recognize some of the portraits and passages they walked by. She decided they were in the western portion of the castle, though she had no memory of crossing the inlet. Perhaps the dungeons plunged farther into the earth than she realized.

Fred and George eventually stopped before a picture of a rather plump woman dressed in a flouncy pink dress. They turned to face Fi and she saw how their shoulders rose toward their ears, waiting for punishment. She set the bag by her feet, drew in a breath as if preparing to yell—then grabbed each boy by a cheek and pinched.

“Ow—! Ow, ow, ow—!”

“Blimey that stings—!”

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Fi said, adopting a strict tone. “For not being clever. You shouldn’t rely wholly on a bit of Charmed paper. If you mean to make mischief, use sense, boys. What if I had been the Potions Master? Hmm?”

“Well, if you had been—.”

“We would have seen you coming, wouldn’t we?”

Fi pinched a little harder and earned watery-eyed winces. “If you don’t think Severus Snape or any professor of this school capable of Confounding a Trace Charm, then you should give up your life of pranks and be good, well-behaved students. What if I had been dangerous? You need to be more aware of your surroundings.”

She released her hold on them. Fred and George rubbed their faces, sullen but repentant. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Get yourselves off to bed.” Fi made shooing gestures toward the portrait. “And don’t let me catch you up and about after curfew again. If you mean to misbehave, you’d better learn to be faster and cleverer than me.”

The Weasleys were quick to obey Fi, hurrying as if certain she would change her mind and drag them both down to the dungeons for a round of midnight torture. She snorted, giving her hand a quick twist to Vanish the stinky bag next to her. Without even knowing the man, Fi knew Snape would _not_ be happy if he learned she had let a pair of Gryffindors off with nothing but a warning and a bit of posturing. It went against Fi’s nature to reprimand children when—in her eyes—they had only been acting like the boys they were. She would have more luck telling a Hippogriff to grow a second head than she would telling teenagers not to get into trouble.

_Hopefully they’re smart enough to avoid the dungeons_ , Fi thought with a slight shake of her head, turning on her heels. _I have an inkling the Head of Slytherin is far less forgiving than myself._


	11. Toadstools & False Friends

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**\- Toadstools & False Friends -**

 

Albus Dumbledore found himself in the novel position of being utterly confused by his Magical Theory professor.

He didn’t know what to make of the woman, not that he’d had the time to sit down and contemplate Delphinia Dullahan much in the week since term’s beginning. The lion’s share of his attention went toward his duties on the Wizengamot, issues brought before the International Confederation of Wizards, and tasks demanded of Hogwarts’ Headmaster. When he wasn’t owling his fellows or handing out needed discipline, Dumbledore watched over his charges, contemplated the Boy Who Lived, and listened to Severus’ growing suspicion of Quirinus.

His concerns were enough to cripple a lesser man, but Dumbledore wasn’t considered one of the strongest wizards alive for nothing.

It was when he sat down to meals and set aside his burdens for a moment that he glanced past Minerva and Severus and contemplated Professor Dullahan.

A curious witch, Delphinia had an irreverent bearing and a yielding sense of person. To be certain, the woman was always very polite when she spoke to the other professors and faculty, but none of those he consulted could give a comprehensive view of Delphinia. She spent one lunch hour with Septima discussing the application of Arithmancy, and though Septima confided to him that Delphinia didn’t have much a talent for the subject, the witch had obviously dabbled and experimented with it. She and Charity shared affable chats about Muggle sciences. She popped by during the week to borrow Minerva’s issue of the latest Transfiguration journal. She had earned his Potions Master’s dislike instead of his simple disregard.

Delphinia ingratiated herself at Hogwarts quite quickly, and Albus did not know why. He had seen her office, the strange floor and the contraption hidden beneath the blanket, the bird and the human skull sitting on the shelf, and though she had settled in, it was not with any sense of _permanency_. Albus guessed her to be a wanderer of sorts, a well-traveled woman who expressed interest in a variety of different subjects but never narrowed her focus, a witch who went where she willed with a single trunk of possessions, a shelf of odds and ends.

Indeed, Albus thought her decision to come to Hogwarts must have been rather flippant. _Why_ would a woman like that wish to become a professor?

He sipped his orange juice as he turned the thought over in his head and stroked his beard. At the Gryffindor table, the Weasley twins went about taking their seats—then stopped, throwing enthusiastic waves toward the staff table. Albus glanced about and saw his Magical Theory professor grin before she continued to pick apart her eggs.

Perhaps Dumbledore simply didn’t know _anything_ about Delphinia Dullahan.

 

*** * ***

 

Fi sat on the floor of her office and glowered at the stick in her hand.

“Bloody _wand_ ,” she said, the word coming from her mouth with the same intonation she reserved for particularly wicked curses. Several scorch marks marred her robes and the floor was littered with puffy toadstools. Another mushroom bloomed from the wand’s end and fell with a soft _plop_. “Bugger.”

“Delphinia, the language,” Ever chided from her shelf. “You are not concentrating.”

“I am.”

“Don’t argue with me, girl. Concentrate.”

Fi resisted the petty urge to throw toadstools and attempted again to withhold her Will from the wand in her hand. Traditional magic was much like laying bricks. It was systematic and controlled by the whim of the brick-layer; the order of the blocks, the mortar, the position all explicitly controlled. The old magic of Fi’s coven was more like spinning pottery. The magic remained in constant motion, wild and revolving, and a skilled practitioner could only lay their hands upon it and mold the clay: they could not control the motion, couldn’t grab hold and force it into shape like sticking two bricks together. It took finesse, focused intent, sacrifice, emotional control, and patience.

For all these reasons, Fi had never picked up modern witchery with any success. Her coven had shunned wands far before Fi’s birth, back when Morgana was still proving herself an absolute pain in Merlin’s arse. Fi had studied the current spells, of course, and understood the application, but much like a first-year, she couldn’t quite master the proper gestures. Her Will conflicted with the wand, like two hammers both going after the same nail, slamming their heads together and missing the nail entirely. She couldn’t say where the mushrooms were coming form, though. Seemed an odd choice on the wand’s part.

Fi gathered her thoughts and shuffled them off behind the iron walls of her Occlumency. Passive, she gave her wand a gentle flick and muttered, “ _Lumos_.”

Light blinked to life at the wand’s tip—then sputtered out. Fi sighed.

“Better,” Ever said, voice approving. “Though I do not know why you simply don’t Transfigure a bit of wood to resemble a wand and flick it about while you use your magic normally.”

They had discussed the possibility, but Fi had discarded the idea. “Any member of the faculty would recognize that the motions of the wand and my magic didn’t align. In truth, I believe it would only deepen suspicions, so I’d rather learn a few paltry spells with a true wand and otherwise forego magic in their presence all together. It would be better for my anonymity if they simply think me little better than a Squib.”

“The daughter of Melisande Dullahan a _Squib_? The _nerve_ —!”

A rapping at the window paused Ever’s tirade and Fi looked about, spotting a scruffy barn owl on the sill thwacking his beak against the panes. She Vanished the glass, allowing the bird to flutter in and drop before her, leg extended in invitation to remove the scroll attached there. Fi did so. The owl flew over to Puck’s perch, looking for a drink, and Fi gave her Augurey a stern word to behave himself. Puck glared at the brown fluffball and apparently decided he’d rather swoop out the open window than watch another bird sip from his water dish.

Smirking, Fi read the letter.

 

_Delphinia,_

 

_If you have the time this evening, I will be at the Hog’s Head Inn in the village tonight and would very much like to discuss new information about your friends that has come to light. I hope to see you there._

 

_Yours,_

_G. Todorov._

 

Her finger traced the word _friends_ as Fi considered Grigor’s missive. He meant the Masked Ones. The vampire had mentioned he would poke about in search of information, but Fi hadn’t expected any actual results. She rose, tucking the letter out of sight, and considered the hour. Students milled about the grounds outside the window, but the slower black dots were beginning to hasten their stride toward the castle doors. Curfew was a few hours off, but it was an easy thing to miss if one wasn’t paying attention.

Fi returned to her desk and the task of reading through assignments, though her thoughts strayed from her work to what Grigor could have unearthed. She waited for dark to settle in well and proper before she tossed a cloak over her shoulders and set out for the staffroom. Fi knew the Floo Network there was connected to Hogsmeade to help the professors manage and protect the older students who frequented the village later in the term. She took a pinch of Floo Powder, tossed it into the flame, and said, “Hog’s Head Inn.”

The flames wavered in green hues. Satisfied, the hedge witch stepped through the hearth—swallowing a mouthful of ash—and arrived coughing on the other side.

Fi squinted her eyes against the dark to see the dim interior of a grubby tavern. It only took a moment for her to see why Grigor had chosen this locale: it was, without a doubt, a seedy place with less than utterly reputable clientele. The few people inside sat slumped under their hoods and threw suspicious glances toward Fi as she stepped forward from the fire. The bartender was a whip-thin fellow with a mass of long, stringy gray hair and grumpy eyes. He stared at Fi with his lips pursed.

“Firewhisky, if you would,” she told the man, though she wasn’t keen on burning her throat at the moment. She found Grigor easily enough, sitting in one of the far booths, waiting expectantly. Fi made her way over to him and the vampire smiled at her approach.

“Fi,” he greeted, rising. “I’m glad you could get away. How are things at the castle?”

“Fine, fine,” Fi assured Grigor as she slid onto a chair opposite him and he seated himself once more. The bartender approached after that and set down a grubby shot glass, pouring a serving from the bottle. Fi fought the urge to wrinkle her nose as she slid a Galleon across the table. “Thank you.”

The man took his payment, grunted, and moved off. _Pleasant sort_.

“So?” Fi asked once certain the bartender had retreated and the others had averted their eyes. She flicked her hand beneath the table to cast the equivalent of a Notice-Me-Not spell. “How are you, Grigor? Your letter said you have news?”

“I do.” He sipped his ale, though his mouth puckered and a slight tremor went through the vampire at the sour taste. Grigor was one of Fi’s oldest friends, having an extended lifetime himself, and so she felt she knew the man quite well. Fi had the sudden impression he didn’t truly want to be there at that table with her having that particular conversation, that he had something he didn’t want for her to know. “I made…discreet inquiries. It took time to ensure your safety and my own, but I discovered our initial suspicions were correct: the wizards chasing you _are_ Death Eaters, followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Fi swore under her breath, and a knot that had been loosely twisted in her middle tightened itself. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but I had hoped….”

“They are also aware of your presence at Hogwarts.”

She froze. Alarm unfurled in her belly as Fi’s mouth opened and closed. “How are you so certain…?”

Grigor rolled up his sleeve, then with tentative motion turned the limb toward the watery candlelight to reveal a tattoo inked upon the inside of his forearm. He made as if to hide it beneath the table again—but Fi’s hand shot forward, grabbing him by the wrist with enough force to jostle their glasses.

She stared at the faded Dark Mark branded upon her friend’s flesh. The air had never tasted so foul on Fi’s tongue.

“What have you done?” The demand came out in a hush, for Fi had quite lost her voice. She felt every one of her years pressing down upon her shoulders at the moment, and though her nails dug into Grigor’s wrist, the vampire had the good sense not to push the hedge witch.

“It was not my choice,” he said softly, laying his other hand upon her own. “It happened a number of years before the war came to an end. You see, the Ministry likes to make it sound as if every Death Eater and follower of the Dark Lord bent the knee at the earliest opportunity and capitulated to the madman’s whims, but that simply is not the truth. Many did not have a choice. If he came for you, you could not turn away. If you were destitute, Sorted into the wrong House, cursed or afflicted, he drafted you and you had no where else to turn. The Ministry was more concerned with protecting _decent_ witches and wizards, not the rabble skirting the edges of society. I am a vampire, Fi. Two-thirds of the people I knew were being swept into the Dark Lord’s clutches, and they did not give a single care for blood superiority.”

Fi loosened her hold on his person and instead slid her hand into his. “Why did you not come to me?” she asked. She looked back upon those years and cursed herself for her idleness, her inattention to her friend’s needs and plight.

Grigor snorted and smiled. “What would you have done, Fi?”

“I would have protected you!”

“From the Dark Lord himself?”

“Yes!” She realized her voice had risen and hushed it, embarrassed. “I didn’t save your life in Romania for _him_ to take it from you. I would have tried, at least.”

He patted her hand. “I know. I _did_ go to you, Delphinia, and you did help me, though I did not say why and what the help was for. I…I was never one of his _favorites_ , as it were. I think he recognized in me a scholar rather than a killer and only demanded research and the occasional acquirement of a Dark object. I was spared the fate of torturing people.”

“But you said I helped you? I don’t know what you mean—.”

“Do you not remember?” Grigor smiled again, showing his fangs, and he recovered his hand to run it across the nape of his neck up into his hairline. The move could be mistaken for a self-conscious one, like a teenager trying to avoid his mother’s scolding, but Fi realized the gesture was deliberate for the vampire.

“Oh!” Her mouth formed a circle before Fi clapped it shut. “Oh. It’s been so long, I totally forgot.”

There, hidden beneath Grigor’s dark hair, was a very small mark, a twisting of Runes, placed upon him by Fi herself—and though thoughts of the parallels to the Dark Lord’s insidious tattoo made her ill—Fi’s mark had been created on Grigor’s insistence. It was an old ward of sorts fashioned by her coven, a little boost for an Occlumens’ mental resistances. Fi had thought it odd when Grigor had come asking for it but had not considered denying the vampire anything he so dearly wanted.

An uneasy silence fell between as Fi retreated to her side of the table, still feeling her age and miserable for her friend. Fi ran in some suspect circles; how many of her acquaintances had fallen to bloody Voldemort’s influence and had hidden the truth from her? Face scrunched, Fi snatched up her drink and downed the whiskey, grimacing as it went.

“So…did you make contact with past associates? Is that how you found out?”

“Not exactly.” Grigor steepled his long, pale fingers. “I’ve no interest in bringing my continued existence to their attention, and the, ah, society has changed. The defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named left a bit of a power vacuum behind, as you would expect, and those lieutenants of his that were clever or rich enough to escape Azkaban have either cut all ties or have done a damn good job burying their indiscretions. Some, however, are absolutely barking mad and have rallied just enough support to hold together a threadbare network of Death Eaters working to return their Lord to power.”

Fi pursed her lips. “How did they discover me? How do they know where I am?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest, but they are aware.” A severe look crossed the man’s face, and for an instant he looked quite terrifying, very much like those exaggerated images of vampires Fi saw drawn in Defense textbooks. “One of your _friends_ is false and has betrayed you.”

“No,” Fi replied automatically, though she did rub her face. “No, I trust those who know the truth of me, several of which are not even on this continent. I trust that they would keep my secret, or come forward to say they had let it slip—by torture or by volition, but they would warn me nonetheless.”

“There is no other alternative, _scumpa mea_. Someone has betrayed your trust.”

The hedge witch exhaled and slumped in her chair, the hard wood of it digging into her back as Fi glared at the cobwebs overhead. “Do you think I should leave Hogwarts?” She didn’t want to. She liked the school, liked the children, liked those bloody stairs that never cooperated and liked her colleagues. Fi guessed she was lonely and hadn’t even realized it. Had she spent too long in the highlands?

A more pertinent question weighed upon her mind: who knew the truth of Delphinia Dullahan and had brought it to the Death Eaters? Had she been betrayed?

“No, I think you should stay put. Death Eaters are terrified of Dumbledore.”

“With good reason. The man wears so many clashing patterns and colors it’s blinding.”

Grigor gave her a disapproving look and Fi chuckled, spinning her shot glass on the table’s scarred face. “Be careful, Fi.”

“I will.”

She would have to be.

 


	12. Detention & Vaudeville

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**\- Detention & Vaudeville -**

 

Fi hated detentions.

Though a month of classes had passed, Fi had yet to give a single one, not that Magical Theory afforded the opportunity for much mischief or misbehavior. Her jaunts through the castle at night occasionally flushed out a misbehaving student or two, but the hedge witch only rounded the louts up and hurried them back to their dormitories. When she came upon canoodling couples during patrol, she escorted them back to their dormitories whilst mortifying the pair with a lengthy discussion on the kind of education that usually came from their Head of House or their parents. Fi felt having to listen to her—loudly—talk about contraceptives and responsibilities was punishment enough.

The only time Fi took more than a nominal amount of House points was when she found one of the older Slytherin lads flinging a rather nasty hex at a young Hufflepuff boy. By the time she finished berating Terence Higgs he was red in the face and quite put out by Professor Dullahan’s usually understated temper. She hadn’t been at Hogwarts long, but she had a reputation for being enthusiastic about her subject and lenient in her punishments. Seeing the woman go off was _not_ a pleasant experience.

For all that Fi hated detentions, however, her fellow Slytherin professor _adored_ them and handed out that particular punishment like Dumbledore dolled out lemon drops. Sometimes Snape proved so liberal in his detention-giving that he overlapped appointments and ended up having to shove some of the punishment off onto Fi. She wound up supervising detentions two nights every week, and she was beginning to think Snape was purposefully being a pain in her arse.

Fi grumbled under breath and turned a page in the book she read. The subterranean dungeons grew cold after nightfall and Fi knew they would only get colder as October matured. She sat behind Snape’s desk, folded into his chair, as the static sound of scrubbing met her ears from the other side of the room. The poor Longbottom boy was bent over one of the larger cauldrons, scraping grunge from its belly.

“What exactly did you do again, Mr. Longbottom?” Fi asked as she set aside the book and let her head drop on the chair’s cushioned top. The leather smelled faintly of the Potions Master; some cross between a masculine odor, parchment, and the spelled oil used to preserve vials and cauldrons. The empty classroom mostly smelled of whatever failure Longbottom was trying to clean out of those cauldrons. Fi thought she’d probably be far more snarly like Snape if she had to teach Potions because of how she hated ruined concoctions. It was a rather delicate art.

“I—I melted my cauldron,” Longbottom confessed, voice high and squeaking, round face flushed. “P-Professor Snape said I could h-have killed everyone—.”

Fi sighed and, after a moment of lazy hesitation, got to her feet. _And the man complained about my melodrama._ “It’s always very important to be careful while concocting Potions and the like. They can be dangerous—though I highly doubt a first-year was handling anything sinister enough to kill an entire classroom.”

“He—.” Longbottom paused and swallowed, eyes on his work. He only spoke again in a miserable whisper. “He’s so nice to the S-Slytherins. I think Professor Snape hates Gryffindors.”

Fi frowned. “Why do you think that?”

“He always…he always picks on us.” In the low-lighting of the dungeon, Neville’s rounded cheeks flushed with more color. “I mean he _really_ picks on us! Especially Harry. He hates Harry.”

“The Potter boy?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Odd.” Fi was well-aware that Professor Snape was a high-strung character who probably had quite the vicious bite to go along with that bark, but the man was too apathetic to have an actual grudge against a _child_. Oh he certainly enjoyed dolling out detentions and snipping away at points here or there. It added to whatever persona the man was trying to build, that casual mien of malice, the vaudeville villain with the devilish wagging brows, but men like Severus Snape didn’t hate eleven year-olds. That would take far too much emotion and investment for a person who could muster nothing but a grunt whenever Fi stole his seat at the high table.

Fi knew most children swore up and down that one of their professors or teachers hated them at some point in their academic careers. They would receive bad marks and contrive an excuse for Professor So-and-So’s disregard, when typically it came down to their own poor motivation or inattention to class. Sometimes children failed to engage with a subject, no matter the instruction. Fi herself used to kick a fuss when the High Witch made her sit and learn her letters. All in all, professors didn’t hate their students, but it would never do to dismiss a child’s observations or worries.

_Was_ Snape picking on the Potter boy? Whatever for?

“Mr. Longbottom.”

“Y-yes, Professor Dullahan?”

Fi made a dismissive gesture toward the cauldron he was currently scrubbing. Curfew was near, and the boy wasn’t near done with his quota. “Leave that and go to bed, there’s a lad.”

“But Professor Snape—.”

“Yes, yes, he’s a right terror and whatnot.” Fi drew in an exaggerated sigh. “I can be a right terror too, you know, so you’d best listen to me and go off now.”

Longbottom was clearly uncertain what to make of the short and rather pretty professor—until Fi adopted her best impersonation of Snape’s posture, arms folded with casual grace, and glared down her nose at him. Neville ran, and Fi chuckled as the dungeon door swung shut. “Such a nervous lad.”

Blowing air through her lips, Fi’s posture deflated, and she set about taking off her navy teaching robes, leaving her in her long tunic and leggings as she set about finishing Longbottom’s task. She would have spelled the blasted things clean, of course, if they hadn’t been jinxed to repel such attempts at cheating. Failed potions could have disastrous reactions to magic, even a simple Scourgify, and so Fi had spent quite a number of years cleaning out cauldrons and the like in her youth. She picked up the brush with a deft hand and began to work.

Two cauldrons later and the door came open again with a tremendous clatter. Fi only lifted a brow at the Potions Master before she went back to chipping away at the cauldron’s gunk.

At first Snape seemed a touch confused. “Dullahan,” he said, voice tight with annoyance. “Where is Longbottom?”

“Oh, I dismissed him.” She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and tossed her braid behind her shoulder. Snape glared. “What? It’s past curfew now.”

“And so you took it upon yourself to complete his punishment?”

“I took it upon myself to finish cleaning the cauldrons so you wouldn’t go into an unholy snit,” Fi returned with a touch of coolness. The other professor grunted, lip curling. _See, there. Just a grunt. Like he can’t even spare the thought to have a proper row._ “Besides,” she confessed, smirking. “Darling boy he is, Longbottom was taking for-bloody-ever and I did not want to sit here all night.”

“Do you even _understand_ how detentions work, Dullahan?”

“Naturally.” Straightening, Fi set aside another clean cauldron and started in on the final one, though not without a vague gesture in his direction first. Snape moved to his desk, sinking into his chair. Fi’s robes had been folded across the back of it, and he took the article, folded it properly and set it on the desk as Dullahan ducked her head into the cauldron. An untold number of objects rattled and weighed down the pockets. Her wand stuck out from the folds and Snape thought her a foolish witch for not using a holster. “I do not like detentions, as it feels as if _I_ am _also_ in detention. I assure you, I am much too old for that.”

The Head of Slytherin narrowed his eyes, the sound of rough bristles against iron the only sound shared between them. Snape studied the witch, the woman who claimed to be schooled in America, studied the silver at her temples and the lack of lines upon her face. She often forgot to wear the transparent spectacles that gave her an owlish aspect, and the lack of teaching attire robbed her of the finery’s pomp. Dullahan could not be as old as she purported.

Fi, naturally, knew none of the thoughts going through Snape’s head and just wanted to go have a nightcap and lay on her divan. She normally spent her nights in deep, dreamless sleep, yet mild nightmares had plagued her of late, nightmares of false friends and the kind of crippling paranoia that could reduce a hedge witch to a mere shadow of herself. Grigor could not suss out more information without risking his anonymity, which left Fi to speculate who had been so stupid as to rat her out.

_It’s too late regardless. Even should I plug the leak, my boat is still filled with water._ Fi abraded her knuckles on the cauldron’s pitted belly and growled. “Bugger.”

“Are you just going to swear at them until the task is done?” Snape tutted under his breath as he thumbed through the book Fi had set down. “Such work ethic, Dullahan.”

“Oh, very mature, Professor, goad the woman polishing your cauldrons for you.”

“It was meant to be Longbottom’s chore, not yours.”

“Students aren’t servants. He cleaned his share, and I am not above scrubbing my own.” Fi paused in her scouring to look at Snape. “Tell me, is it true you pick on the Potter boy?”

She saw the minute hesitation of his long-fingered hands as he turned a page, but Snape’s indifferent expression didn’t change. “Ah, yes. Precious _Potter_. Hogwarts’ very own celebrity.”

“So I take it you do pick on him. Whatever for?”

“Do you fawn over him as well?” the Potions Master sneered. “The Golden Boy? _The Boy Who Lived_?”

Fi scowled. “That is a _foul_ name,” she told him. “He is eleven. He is a _child_. Why, by Peverell’s short-pants, would people call him that? I care not for his assumed fame, because—as you recall—I was not in country when he lost his parents.” That was a lie. Fi had very much been country, so far in the country only the vaguest whispers of war had reached her ears. “I have read the accounts, accounts that cannot be accurate because they are based upon assumptions, and though I do not begrudge the boy his remarkability, he was not saved by some god-sent power or innate ability. People underestimate the kind of magic woven into emotion, into blood and into death. It honestly _baffles_ me the Dark Lord didn’t meet his ruin prior to murdering Harry’s family. He messed with power beyond his ken.” Fi cleared her throat, ridding her voice of the growling brogue it adopted when she felt anger curl in her middle.

Snape stared at the woman. “I assure you he is _quite_ like his father: arrogant, disruptive—.”

Fi couldn’t help herself: she released a short, rather high-pitched laugh, quickly smothering it in her hand. “My apologies, but we are speaking of the same Potter, right? Little black-haired boy with those lovely green-eyes, thin and timid as a barn mouse? No, perhaps not timid, but certainly a polite, quiet child all the same.” Fi also thought him rather distracted and was considering moving his seat away from Weasley. She knew the boy had grown up in the Muggle world and had little knowledge of wizardry prior to his arrival at the school, and she wondered if the additional pressure of living up to his parents’ legacies and the weight of that horrid title were what gave the boy his mediocre marks.

Of course, he could just be a lazy curmudgeon like some of his classmates, but Fi would make certain of that before passing judgment.

“You never did answer why you pick on him.”

“I do not _pick_ on children. I give them the punishments they deserve, such as _detention_.” Snape snapped the book closed and rose, black robes rippling about his person. “If you are finished, Dullahan?”

Fi had the strangest inkling Snape was calling her a child and she frowned at the young man. “People is glass castles should not throw stones.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is a Muggle expression. You should look it up.” At last, Fi set down the scrub brush and stretched, pacing the room to pick up her book and her robes. Standing at Snape’s side, she wrinkled her nose at their height differences. “Your cauldrons are spotless. Care for a nightcap, Severus?”

The Potions Master’s bored expression finally cracked, and he looked as if he just might flay Fi alive. She gave him a savage grin of her own. “No? Suit yourself. I’ve a fine glass of Ogden’s calling my name.”

Fi departed the dungeons, and she heard the door slam shut in her wake.


	13. Lemon Drops & the Sorting Hat

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**\- Lemon Drops & the Sorting Hat -**

 

Fi glowered at the stone gargoyle and the stone gargoyle glowered at Fi.

“Candy pops,” she said. Nothing happened.

“Candy strings.”

Nothing.

“Lemon drops.”

Nothing.

“Lemon pops?”

The gargoyle remained immobile as the stone it was made of.

“Oh for the love of—I have an appointment with the Headmaster! I am expected!” the hedge witch raged at the creature, whacking it on the head for good measure. Her palm stung. “You great rocky lummox. Lemon tarts! Sherbet melon! Pumpkin spice! Lollipop! Butterscotch!” Her temper rose. Why Dumbledore hadn’t seen fit to give her the bloody password she would never know.

Two Ravenclaws paused to watch the Magical Theory professor shout the names of confectioneries at the statue before hurrying on. They hadn’t known Professor Dullahan had such a thick brogue.

“Ye bloody pebble! I’m in no mood ta be trifled with—.”

“Professor?”

A small yip left Fi as she spun about to find little Harry Potter behind her, looking concerned. “Mr. Potter,” she said, clearing her throat. “How are you? Looking forward to the Halloween Feast tomorrow?”

“Yes, Professor.” He cast a glance toward the gargoyle in puzzlement. “Um, do you—do you need the password?”

Fi’s brow rose. “Yes…?”

Flushed, Potter said “Acid pops,” to the statue Fi had an arm balanced upon and it leapt aside, almost knocking Fi off her feet. She caught her balance with a huff.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. Though, you shouldn’t be giving out passwords. What if I was a Dark wizard in disguise trying to snuff the Headmaster?”

The boy gave her a decidedly uneasy look and Fi snorted.

“I’m not, by the way. Do you know how to check?”

He shook his head.

“By picking a memory that is exclusive to one another and asking for details.” Fi smiled at the boy as he nodded, untidy hair in disarray over that angry scar. “I did want to have a discussion with you—now, don’t give me that look, you’re not in trouble. This may sound like an old cliche, but I’m concerned about your grades. You seem a bit distracted. In the grand scheme of things I find grades to be—.” Fi made a passive gesture she was certain would have given her first year Hermione Granger a heart attack. Potter’s eyes glittered with amusement. “But I’m more concerned in if you’re learning subjects you enjoy. Have you any particular areas of interest? Things you want to study?”

The boy looked uncertain, like he wanted to suggest something but didn’t know what.

“Or if you want to review anything. My office hours are always open, and I’ve a dab hand at most subjects. Except for practical Arithmancy. Do not ask me to do Arithmancy, we will have terrible results and most likely bring about the apocalypse.”

Potter smiled then and laughed—a boyish giggle, for he was very much a boy, smaller than Fi, like a little black Crup pup with guileless eyes and delicate bones. Fi felt the urge to be careful and gentle with Mr. Potter, though she knew he must be far more durable than he appeared. She did not want to pity the lad. She only wanted to see him thrive, just as she wanted to see all her students thrive and grow and learn.

“Maybe…maybe some help with Potions?” Potter asked, shrugging one shoulder as if to feign nonchalance. “I, erm, don’t seem to do very well—.”

Fi’s opinion of Professor Snape lowered in that instance, because whatever petty game he wished to play should not affect the boy’s education. “I am an excellent potioneer, Mr. Potter, almost as good as your Potions Master—.” _Better even. The great billowing prat. See if I offer him any more of my good Ogden’s._ “So if you find my teaching methods agreeable and don’t mind my shrieking bird, please do not hesitate to use my office hours. I will be perfectly happy to help.”

“Thanks, Professor Dullahan.”

She nodded, pleased, and hoped he would take the offer for tutoring. “Now, off with you. Don’t be late for class.”

Potter hurried on and Fi watched him go for a moment before directing her fiercest glare at the gargoyle. She was half-convinced it would leap back the moment she passed and pin her in place, but Fi forced herself to dart forward, flinching when the stairs beyond the arch began to revolve upward. “Oh, more bloody moving stairs.”

At the top of the stairs, Fi knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When none came, Fi cracked open the barrier. “Hello? Headmaster Dumbledore? It’s Professor Dullahan.”

Curious, Fi peeked inside and didn’t spot the elderly wizard puttering about. She walked in without invitation once she saw the whirl of silver instruments humming and bobbing about on the solid end tables, her interest too rampant to suppress. Fi couldn’t make heads or tails of the vast majority of the items and wasn’t willing to take a proper look, lest she break something irreplaceable. She paced farther into the well-appointed space, watching the portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses as they watched her, muttering to one another, snapping at her not to touch things.

A gentle trill drew Fi to the desk and the golden perch set at its side. “Oh, precious thing, you,” she breathed as the phoenix locked eyes with her, clacking his beak. Fi had met a phoenix or two over her years but still found herself in awe of the fiery birds when she did cross paths with one. “I must admit I’m quite jealous of Dumbledore now.”

Fi held up a hand, waiting, and the bird eyed her with suspicion before inclining his long neck, allowing to her to stroke his radiant plumage. “Beautiful creature. Don’t tell Puck. Such a jealous birdbrain.”

The phoenix chirped.

“Right? I’ve been carting him around for however many years, you’d think he’d relax himself a bit more.”

Fi continued to stroke the bird and pepper it with compliments until the avian grew bored of her praise and turned away. Her eye landed instead upon a familiar weathered hat sitting upon a shelf. Fi had last seen it on the head of a Slytherin before it had been whisked out of the Great Hall, at which point it must have been tossed back onto its spot here. Fi ignored her twitchy fingers for the better part of ten minutes, tapping her foot, but when Dumbledore still didn’t show up, she pushed one of the lighter chairs over to the bookshelf, stood on the seat, and plucked the hat from its place.

“Now, let’s see what you’re all about, shall we?”

Settling on the chair proper, Fi dropped the hat upon her head, and the brim immediately slid down over her eyes.

A sly voice whispered in her ear a moment later. “ _Curious, are you? My, my, the things in your head_.”

Fi almost yanked the thing off of herself in alarm. The Sorting Hat continued to speak and she settled once more, folding her hands together in her lap.

“ _Delphinia Dullahan. You’re two-hundred and twenty years late for your Sorting, young lady_.”

Chuckling, Fi decided to reply in her thoughts. _Sorry about that_.

“ _You’re not sorry at all, cheeky girl. What adventures you’ve had. Oh, yes, you would have done quite well at Hogwarts—if your mischief hadn’t gotten you tossed out on your backside first_.”

Fi winced.

“ _Whatever did you do with your letter when it was sent?_ ”

_I think my mother burnt it._

“ _A shame, but I see you’re doing well at the school now, filling young minds with the proper fluff._ ”

_One can only hope some of it sticks._

“ _Give it time and it will. Yes…you did well to come here, to Dumbledore. Death Eaters—nasty business, that lot. I would suggest keeping your peculiar little quirk to yourself for the time being, however._ ”

She nodded. _I intend to. It’s dangerous knowledge in the wrong hands_.

“ _Albus would seek to protect you from your pursuers, as he knows only too well how You-Know-Who desperately wishes to return. Great wizard that he is, Albus is still human, and I fear in a moment of weakness he may try to force your secret into the light_.”

_I have encountered others like that in the past_. Fi twiddled her thumbs for a moment, swiveling through her memories. _He has good intentions, but sometimes the best intentions are not the right ones_.

“ _I’m glad you’ve allowed some wisdom to penetrate that head of yours_.”

_Me too._ Fi snorted. _Tell me, what House would I have been?_

“ _Slytherin without a doubt, girl,_ ” the hat grumbled, much to Fi’s continued amusement. “ _Merlin help us. Your ambition and cunning would have made ol’ Salazar weep._ ”

Fi wasn’t entirely sure if the connotation in that remark was positive, as Slytherins were quite well known for a number of other less savory qualities, such as snobbery, elitism, and mistrust, but she pushed aside those concerns and went to lift the Sorting Hat from her head. At the last moment, she reconsidered and instead posed a new question to it, allowing the image of a dark-haired girl with blue-eyes the color of a stormy sea fill her head.

“ _Ah_ ,” the hat said, sadness coloring its inner voice. “ _She would have been a Hufflepuff, if I had to guess_.”

Fi’s mouth twitched. _Thanks_.

As she began to withdraw the Sorting Hat, a different voice spoke: “Professor Dullahan?”

Fi jumped and quickly yanked the hat free, blinking in the light, meeting the bemused gaze of Dumbledore standing not three feet away. Fi was surprised she hadn’t heard him approach. “I, er—.” He lifted his brow, and Fi quickly handed the Sorting Hat over. “Sorry, Headmaster. Curiosity got the best of me.”

“That’s quite all right, my girl.” He stretched and returned the hat to its shelf without having to use a chair as Fi did. “My apologies for being late. I am glad you let yourself in.”

Fi managed a chagrined simper. “I’m a terribly nosy sort, Headmaster.”

Albus chuckled. He gestured for her to take a comfier chair before the desk as he went behind it, picking up a dish of yellow candies as he went. “Lemon drop?”

Fi accepted the offer. “Thank you.”

Dumbledore settled into his seat with a flourish of garish fabric and doffed his spangled hat, setting it aside on the desk’s top. “So, my dear, you wanted to ask me something?”

“I do.” Fi sucked on the sour candy and gave herself a moment to formulate her thoughts. “I wish to ask for leave tomorrow evening, after classes end. I would return in the morning prior to my first class.”

“Oh? May I ask why?”

“Let’s just say my family chooses a less…orthodox way to celebrate the holiday,” Fi told him, avoiding the piercing scrutiny of the wizard’s blue gaze. Halloween was by far more accepted in the Wizarding world than the sacrifices needed for Samhain, and though Fi alluded to the latter, she truly meant to celebrate neither. A certain chore in the highlands required her attention on All Hallow’s Eve, and while she hoped to have the Headmaster’s permission to leave, she would be going regardless. The inevitable press of Muggle society wore away at traditional magical holidays, such as Samhain, the solstices, or Beltane. Christmas, Valentines, Halloween—these were all Muggle celebrations, after all.

“Ah,” Albus intoned, leaning back. “I see. Well, Professor Dullahan, I can hardly see a reason to deny such a reasonable request. It is a shame, though. The Halloween Feast is always magnificent.” He gave her a knowing look over the top of his half-moon glasses. “And the desserts are especially decadent. The students look forward to it every year, and Madam Pomfrey always dreads the resulting influx of toothaches and upset stomachs.”

Fi groaned. Visions of eclairs and treacle tart danced in her mind. “You don’t play fair, Headmaster.”

“I never claimed I did.” Dumbledore smiled as he folded his hands together, the fingers aged but spared the rigors of arthritis and swollen joints. “On a different note, I’ve heard that students are enjoying your classes, Fi. You’ve inspired interest in magical theory that I haven’t seen in many years at this school, and I assure you, my dear, I have been here for quite some time.”

She flushed at the unexpected praise and felt a bubble of pride swell in her chest. Ever would have chastised her for that moment of indulgence, but Fi couldn’t help her elation at the idea of students enjoying her class and being inspired to study the subject.

“The older students especially seem keen to learn how you preform feats of wandless magic.”

The hubris in Fi’s middle froze, and the hedge witch composed herself before daring to glance into Dumbledore’s eyes. The usual mischievous twinkle was there, but she knew the wizard was fishing for information. “Oh, I’ve shown them a few useful tricks,” Fi said with a smirk, canting her head with just the barest touch of arrogance in her demeanor. She hoped that show of arrogance put the Headmaster off his pursuit, as the arrogant so rarely had anything to truly boast about. “A bit of summoning, a few trigger spells to ignite candles and the like.” Fi shrugged. “Just a few showy examples to fuel their interest.”

“Hmm.” Albus considered her for another moment, unknown thoughts working in his wizened skull. “Interesting. I will have to sit in one of your classes and see what has the students so enthused for myself.” He beamed then, and Fi relaxed when she sensed no guile to the action. “I appreciate the effort you’ve put forth in your teaching, Professor. I feel I made the right choice in hiring you.”

Fi sighed at the niggling little worm of pride unfurling in her chest again. _I’m such a ninny, preening like Puck after I pet his head_. “Thank you, Headmaster. I’m glad to be here.” She meant those words, too. Fi was much happier at Hogwarts than she would have ever expected.

“Enjoy your time with your family, Fi.”

They said their goodbyes, and as she headed for the door, Fi heard the phoenix release a lyrical trill in parting. Her mouth curved into a wider smile.


	14. Flying Contraptions & Stumpy Wands

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**\- Flying Contraptions & Stumpy Wands -**

 

Halloween dawned just as any day at Hogwarts did, and it continued in the same bustling fashion. Students daydreamed in class, excited for the evening’s spectacle and the delicious feast being prepared in the kitchens. Fi grumbled her way through lessons, thinking of the treats she’d miss that evening, but when she let her final batch of Ravenclaw third years go, she nonetheless went into her office and locked the door behind her.

“Are you ready to go, Ever?” Fi sighed, shuffling over to her trunk to retrieve a satchel.

“Eh?”

“I said _are you ready to go_?”

“Go?” Ever mumbled too quiet for Fi to hear. “Is it that time of year already?”

“Yup. We need to hurry if I want to have any time to sleep.” Fi tossed a collection of items into the satchel’s open brim, then slung the strap over her head. She turned, and Puck flared his wings, waiting for invitation. “No, not this time. Stay here out of the cold, you silly creature.”

Puck was not at all pleased with this turn of events and made his protests loudly known. Fi tried assuaging him with a fresh cup of flies, but the bird turned his beak up and refused the treat. She set the revolting cup aside with a word of reprimand for the finicky Augurey, then slung the satchel around her neck and gathered up Ever. The skull grumbled about being shoved into a witch’s armpit as Fi tucked her close and tried to cover most of the white bone with her sleeve.

“It’s better than a box, isn’t it?”

“Marginally.”

Fi placed a Sickle in her palm and grabbed a handful of Floo Powder with the other. Trailing glittery soot, she let part of the handful hit the banking flames of her hearth, watched the flames bubble up green and brilliant, and said, “Staff room.”

She didn’t pause to take in the requested room once she arrived: instead, Fi took one step forward, dropped the rest of the powder in the grate behind her, and said, “Hog’s Head” as she stepped back. The boisterous noise of the pub rushed over her when the Floo stopped spinning, but Fi only flipped her Sickle onto the grubby mantel, blinked, and Apparated away.

“Oh, _bugger_.”

The rapid succession of transportation caught up with her once the ground solidified under her feet and Fi stumbled, jostling Ever. She lowered herself to her knees, the damp press of frosted heather frigid under her palms, and fought to keep lunch firmly lodged in her middle.

“You should know better,” Ever snapped. “You’ve always had a weak stomach, Delphinia.”

“Do be quiet, Ever,” Fi muttered, voice warbling. She managed to find her equilibrium and to force herself upright, wincing in the sudden burst of a Highland gale. Around her the mountains rose and fell, steely crags of white and gray with cotton clouds caught between their teeth. Fi’s teaching robes came with warming Charms stitched into the lining, but the light Charms did nothing against the autumn breeze. Little of the sun could be seen despite the hour still being early, and the long, blurred shadows seemed sinister in the fat mounds of clover. The charred wreckage of old cottages poked through the foliage like twisted, blackened bones.

Fi moved her hand on instinct and her Will responded, changing the intent of her magic, silently diverting the chillier winds from colliding with her person. She sighed, and was surprised by the relief she felt in being able to cast without reserve. Fi found it rather more exhausting than she’d expected to pretend at Hogwarts, to carry that wand like a stick of Muggle dynamite and to tamp down the more innate urges to do simple spells that would befuddle traditional witches and wizards.

As Ever always said after a trying day, “The old ways are best.”

Fi tucked her braid into the folds of her cloak lest it come apart in the whipping wind and stepped off the rock she’d appeared on. Brittle frost crunched under the heel of her boots. Fi set off at a brisk pace, robes flapping around her slight frame, the satchel bouncing against her thigh. A few too many weeks spent idle behind a desk had her out of breath before Fi had climbed the first set of foothills. She turned once to survey the crumbled remains of the village below and released a single, tired sigh.

“If you don’t get a move on, we won’t be there until next month.”

“Sometimes, Ever, I swear—.”

“You swear what, girl? You could kill me?” Ever adopted a fake falsetto. “Oh, no. Anything but _that_.”

Fi groaned and—with a careful twist of her hand and a moment of thought—set the skull to levitate near her shoulder, freeing her hands for the climb. “I swear I could send you to the bottom of the ocean and not feel an ounce of guilt.”

“Bet there’s more intelligent life down there than there is on this mountain.”

Fi couldn’t help but laugh, failing to remain stern. “I just had the lovely image in my head of you screaming at a school of angler fish.”

“You have the oddest mind, Delphinia.”

The following hours were spent in companionable silence as the liminal light of a lingering sunset finally caved to the pressure of night and Fi threw a magelight into the air with Ever. Wards fizzled and snapped as Fi crossed their lines, and she paused to suss out the sigils buried in heather and new snow. Many were etched on the underbellies of stones, and she pricked her finger to refuel each rune with a drop of blood and a gentle word. The rocks rolled back into place with grumbles and grunts—but the wards sung again, quiet but satisfied.

“What was that one?” Ever asked as they passed another ward and Fi licked her sore fingertip.

“Which one?”

“That ward. I don’t recognize the resonance, though the runes…something about Muggles?”

“Oh,” Fi commented as she found a dilapidated set of stone stairs and started along them, heading for the tor’s crooked peak. “I put it up last year, don’t you recall? A new one I’ve developed for those flying Muggle contraptions.” The hedge witch drew her hand through the air in mimicry of a plane. “Don’t want them landing near here, so the ward diverts their electric things. Radio waves and sonar and what have you.”

Ever’s voice went cold. “ _Muggles_.”

“Right?”

Another set of minutes passed before Fi—sweating profusely and out of breath—came to the end of the steps and faced a seemingly blank face of solid stone. She approached the natural wall, ignoring the grasping bracken about her ankles, and plunged headfirst into the rock. The illusion rippled and permitted the witch entry.

A dozen or so voices drew quiet when Fi tripped in the sudden dark and cursed under her breath. Ever and the magelight sunk through the illusion next and joined the hedge witch, dispelling the heavy shadows to reveal the inside of a crudely formed passage. Fi clutched the satchel close as she set off, relieved to be out of the harsher weather and relieved to see nothing had changed in the year since her last visit. The passage narrowed and she hopped across a few rounded boulders that hadn’t been removed from the earth. Ever followed, silent and floating, ghoulish with the light next to her bare bones.

Excited whispers cut through the silence and someone hissed, “Be quiet!” Fi kept herself from snorting as she climbed the last few feet of the passage and came to an inner cavern. She pushed the magelight higher and urged more light to spill upon the scene before her. The light shone on the expansive mounds of jade clover and the rounded stones jutting from the earth at equidistant intervals. Atop each arranged pedestal rested a bare skull.

“Don’t tell me to be quiet—it’s just Delphinia!”

“Oh! Delphinia! My, is it that time of year again?”

“Yes, but you didn’t _know_ it was her, now did you, bonehead?”

“Great. Very original insult, Caterina, haven’t heard it before.”

“You’re cheeky for a witch without cheeks.”

“If I had hands, I’d strangle you both. I'd even settle for throttling you with feet.”

“Hello,” Fi called to the cavern at large, passing through the middle of the rows where a semblance of a path led to stone platform. She hesitated to call it a platform: more a weathered, flat rock poking out above the lichen with a hollow groove on one side, stained an ugly brown. The skulls were arrayed around this platform, roughly four dozen or so, half of that number bearing a colored gem upon their boney brows. From these bejeweled skulls rose the plethora of voices.

Fi surveyed what remained of the Aeter Coven, settling her satchel on the platform before she dismounted and began to mingle among the witches who had long since lost their forms. They wanted what they wanted every Samhain: news of the outside world, a glance into Wizarding society, foibles on the rise and fall of Dark Lords, tales of the newest innovations, and stories of how the old ways had fallen. Fi walked among them and repeated her tales many times. Several commented on her new garb, exclaimed over her boasts of finally, finally getting into Hogwarts, and laughed at the wand she gingerly held up for their inspection.

“Bet it belonged to a Squib,” Caterina, one of the most vocal, declared.

“You can tell by how stumpy it is,” said Desmonda from two rows back, voice ringing.

“A common complaint among witches about their wizards, I’m sure! _Stumpy wands._ ” Laughter resounded following Mathilda’s rather blatant innuendo.

Fi stuffed the wand back into her robe pocket. “Oh _ha ha_ ,” she tutted. “One would think you’re a bunch of children, not witches older than Merlin himself.”

“Stick ol’ Merlin’s head on a rock for a hundred years, see how mature he is.”

“Bet he’d be gibberin’ in a decade.”

Fi left them to their argument about the deceased paragon and returned to the platform where Ever yet hovered, ghoulish and quiet with the magelight flickering high above. “Already done socializing, Delphinia?”

“I haven’t much time,” she confessed, though he mouth formed a disappointed moue and her eyes moved beyond Ever toward the rows of her coven. “I have to be back by morning, and it…you know it wouldn’t be exactly wise for me to linger, not when I’ve got Dark wizards on my tail.”

“They can’t get past the wards.”

“I would hope not, but I don’t want them to find out where the wards are, either. Let’s keep thieves honest, eh?”

Ever said nothing, or maybe she muttered, but it was lost in the din of sound echoing in the enclosed space.

“So, who have you chosen for this year, High Witch?” Fi asked, stretching. The others, catching her motion and the direction of her attention began to fall silent one by one. By the time Ever answered, silence once more infiltrated the cavern.

“Esmeralda Stonebrook.”

“Excellent,” Fi said, snapping her fingers, eyes alighting upon the desired skull. It rose and zipped to her upheld hand, landing with a light thump. Spinning the skull about, Fi grinned and held it between two hands. No gem glittered on the brow. “Hello, Esme. Let’s see about getting your voice back tonight.”

Fi walked the skull over to the hollow carved in the stone and set it just beyond that, brushing aside some dirt with an idle hand. She then returned to her satchel, and from it came an assortment of different colored candles, a tied pouch of salt, a peculiar knife designed with a hook in the blade, and various herbs with tidy labels attached. Fi twitched, and an idle thought brought the magelight lower, dimming it, allowing her to encircle the skull and herself in the salt, arrange the candles, and collect the herbs in her fist before it went out.

Fi felt for the large, misshapen gemstone by touch and pulled it from the bag last, dropping it into the stained groove without having to actually see it.

The hush again stole through the cavern, heavier than before, pressing, the distant whistling of the wind almost audible beyond the thick walls of mountainous rock. Fi sat cross-legged in the silent dark for an immeasurable amount of time, drawing into herself the chillness of the air, the smell of old moss, the lingering malaise of _unbeing_ , because she did not want to call it _death_. In her chest her magic hummed, aware and thrumming, suffusing the witch’s being with warmth that cut the mountain’s cold bite.

In an instant, the herbs in her hand ignited in cheerless green flames.

“I call to you, spirits of guidance, of sisterhood, of knowledge. I call to you and bid you attend me on this night of the year’s coming death.”

The herbs, smoldering already, left Fi’s hand and ignited all but one candle, throwing eerie an glow about the cavern, like sunlight through ocean waves.

“I call to you, and bid you stand sentinel to the wandering path between our world and your own. I bid you to throw your shadow upon me, so I may yet stay hidden from the Harvester, and he may yet pass me by on his way to reap the souls of the less wary.” Fi couldn’t help the dryness of her tone, and one of the skulls snorted. _Cheeky witches_. “I bid you step forward, spirits of those who have come before, on this night where the veil draws thin between us, and impart your aid upon this land of mortal flesh.”

Perspiration beaded Fi’s forehead as she lifted her hands above her head and the air thickened, buzzing with energy not of this realm, directionless and wild, without shape or function or form. Lowering her arms, the hedge witch began to chant—not in Latin, as the traditional witches of the time were wont to do, but in the melodic tongue native to the Isles, to those cold, soaring mountains and the mystical folk who remembered the _others_ that once walked the land.

Her words caught the magic brought to bear, each letter ensnaring a piece of that hanging energy. Time drifted. Sweat dripped along Fi’s temples. The chanting continued to fill the cavern, resounding upon the stone walls, seeming to shake the earth below and resonate within the spectating bones. The usual light, crisp quality of Fi’s voice became raspy and hoarse the longer her spell spun itself. Her arms—held before herself, hands blackened with soot and ash—began to waver.

At last, the chanting cut off with the same abruptness of its beginning, and Fi swallowed the urge to cough and clear her throat. Instead, she lowered her wary limbs, stiff with the thick weaving of magic created by the spell, and took up the knife she had laid at her side. Nose wrinkled, Fi flipped the blade so the barb at the top of the knife curved about the outside of her palm, and she gave it a twist. The hook punctured flesh and created a deep cut, but the odd curl at the weapon’s top kept the gash small otherwise.

Fi allowed her blood to well and drip into the groove stained by a few dozen years of similar rituals.

“Spirits, I bid you exit,” she said in English, retrieving a handkerchief to wrap about her injured hand. “I bid you return to the ethereal climes, I bid you farewell. Thrice I bid you exit, and thrice you are denied home here upon the land of earthly delight. Go now, go now, go now.”

With a wary sigh, Fi waved toward the candles and they extinguished, aside from the candle stationed on the western point of the circle. It lit itself with a cheerful yellow glow.

Fi dipped her fingers into the wet groove carved into the platform and retrieved not a rough-hewn stone, but a faceted gem, now cut and gleaming, entwined in a simple clasp of pure gold. Satisfied, Fi leaned forward, and with a word, stuck the gem upon the waiting skull’s brow.

“Well, Esme? Go ahead.”

For a moment, silence returned to the mound, Fi’s own breath held and her body rigid with nerves—and then the drawl of a new voice seemed to cut the taut strings keeping the hedge witch upright.

“I must have spent that last twenty years trying to think of a witty quip,” Esme pouted. “And I forgot what I meant to say. Dammit all.”

Roaring laughter echoed as the witches ignored Ever’s chastisement and Fi grinned, wiping her face and brow as the golden candlelight continued to flicker, reflected in the new gem pressed to Esmeralda’s brow.

“Thank you, Delphinia,” Esme said beneath the renewed chatter. Softer, she added. “We know this is hard on you.”

Fi reached out to touched the skull’s pale cranium. “It’s the least I can do.”


	15. Trolls & Victorian Ladies

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**\- Trolls & Victorian Ladies -**

 

Hogwarts looked magnificent in the sunrise.

The first nip of the coming winter’s frost shone upon the ramparts and on the high, steep roofs, the towers brilliant, the surrounding lake aglow like liquid mercury poured by a heavenly god’s hand. Fi paused in her trek to admire it, her breath issuing forth in white plumes. Her braid swayed toward her waist, fine wisps of black hair tangled about her ears and over part of her brow.

Beautiful the sight may be, but Fi was rather irked to be seeing it in such a manner. She had spent much of the night in ritual and had only caught a quick nap on a bed of clover before being forced to clamor back down the mountain. Once beyond the wards, she Apparated to the Hog’s Head, intending to use the Floo to return to the staffroom, than her own office—only to find the Floo _blocked_.

“Bloody inconsiderate,” Fi muttered under her breath as she walked the breadth of the idyllic wizarding village, her feet sore with new blisters and her legs aching with exertion. The walk from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts was a considerable one, which was why carriages were utilized when students arrived at the station in the beginning of the year. “Won’t even have time for a bath at this rate, will have to go to class smelling of smoke and mud and salt.”

“Please, do the world a service and bathe, Delphinia.”

“You don’t even have a nose, Ever.”

“I don’t require one. You simply _look_ smelly.”

“Thank you, High Witch,” Fi growled. The castle gates swung open on their own accord as Fi crossed onto the grounds. It reminded her of her first time coming to the school, following Filch along like a misbehaving pup, though the weather was a touch gloomier now, a palpable residue of decay clinging to the Forest’s edges. _The Kiss of Death_ , Ever would have called it—had she not been in such a rotten mood from being jostled for hours.

Fi came into the entrance hall and exhaled, relieved, then frowned when the creaking of the doors echoed into the silence. Naturally it was quite early, but the hedge witch had become accustomed to the bustling of early-risers, the scuffle of shod feet on the tricky stairs, the murmur of voices speaking around yawns, the sharp tone of Snape in the staffroom replying to whomever dared enter with the dawn.

_I swear he never sleeps._

As if summoned by the mere thought of him, a shadow swept from one of the dungeons’ lower corridors and the Potions Master bore down upon Fi, his upper lip curled and his eyes wide in a vision of frank anger she hadn’t seen him wear before. Fi took a step back before she could think better of it.

“Ah, so you’ve returned,” he commented, voice cold and smooth as the water of the mountain springs. Beneath the frigidity, however, Fi could hear the undeniable shiver of an emotion far more volatile than the one he displayed. “Dullahan deems us worthy of her presence again. Where _were_ you last night?”

She blinked. His eyes went to Ever tucked under Fi’s arm and narrowed. “Not that it’s any of your business, Professor Snape, but I was with my family. I had permission from the Headmaster to leave school grounds.”

Her words did nothing to adjust the man’s mood, and she surmised he had already heard this from Dumbledore himself. _Who spit in his cauldron? Why is he so upset?_

“Yes, how _convenient_. The perfect time for your…excursion. Did you know about the mountain troll, or was that a serendipitous addition on your co-conspirator’s behalf?”

“Who? What are you talking about?” Fi’s brow lowered and, as she adjusted Ever, her body froze. “Did—did you just say _troll_? What troll?”

“The troll that managed to find its way into the castle.” Snape’s sneer was unkind. “Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

Color drained from Fi’s face. “There was a _troll_ here?! Tell me none of the children were hurt! How did it—.” Her words cut off with a sudden snap of her jaws, and the hedge witch’s eyes narrowed just as much as the Potions Master’s. “You…you think _I_ let it in?”

He didn’t respond, but Snape wore the answer plainly upon his disdainful visage.

Fi advanced on the man as he had advanced on her, and though surprise forced Snape back an inch, he moved no farther. True anger came rarely to Fi, rare as rain in the harshest of deserts, and the cool air in the entrance hall crackled with electricity as her pale glare bore into his and the flat of her hand struck Snape’s chest. “How dare you?” Fi growled, her childhood brogue riled into existence. “How dare you insinuate I would intensionally be so malicious as to let some bumbling beast into a school! How _dare_ you imply I sought to hurt children—!”

Something shifted in Snape’s expression, a swift calculation of thought as he absorbed the nuances of Delphinia’s reaction and the delivery of her words. Fi felt his attempt at Legilimency and it surprised her to encounter _another_ Legilimens at Hogwarts aside from Dumbledore. The art was old and uncommon, after all. Snape’s skill slunk through the foremost part of her defenses in a more pervasive and deceptive sweep than Dumbledore’s ability, but Fi kept him out all the same, flinging samples of her ire and outrage for him to sample.

“Enough,” Snape said, the snide lilt of his voice replaced by a calmer baritone. He stepped back again to put space between them, and Fi glowered up at the taller wizard. “Enough. I see my suspicions are misplaced in this instance.”

Fi knew that was not an apology and she wanted to demand one, but a discreet huff from Ever warned the hedge witch of her mentor’s fraying temper, so Fi said nothing in reply.

“No students were seriously injured, though _Potter_ and his friends thought themselves capable heroes when they went after the beast.” Snape’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist before he swiped it across his mouth, agitated. “Through sheer dumb luck, they suffered nothing but a smattering of bruises and incapacitated the troll.”

“Brui—?!” A sick feeling clenched in Fi’s middle. She imagined tiny, dark-haired Potter standing before the lumbering form of a mountain troll with—who had Snape said? Friends? Perhaps the Weasley boy, though Fi wasn’t as aware of her students’ social lives as other professors were. “But how did it get into the castle?!”

“That is what I’m trying to discover.”

Fi wiped a shaky hand over her brow. “Bloody hell, this job will be the death of me,” she muttered, earning another muffled snort from Ever. _If only it were that simple, right?_ Her gaze snapped to Snape and she dropped her hands to her hips. “Hold on. I’m still furious with you. Accusing me of smuggling some smelly troll into a school. How would I even manage that? Have you _seen_ me? I’m barely bigger than a third year! So you can bugger right off, sir! _Good day!_ ”

Fi spun on the heels of her muddy boots and started for those wretched, scheming stairs—then turned again, walking right past the frozen Potions Master with another “Good day, sir!” and plunged into the dungeons, intent on finding the kitchens and gorging herself on whatever sweets remained from the night’s feast.

Snape stared, stunned. He couldn’t believe he’d been told off by a mud-covered woman with a bedazzled skull in the crook of her arm. _Like one of those wild witches you’d find in the moors, selling false promises and fortunes for a coin and a lock of hair._ He shook his head. _But she didn’t help let that damn troll in._

 

 

Fi’s anger didn’t settle until well into the following morning, when classes were set to resume after being canceled the day prior. She arrived first to the Great Hall and took Snape’s seat, not caring in the slightest that it irked the man when she sat there. The remainder of the staff trickled in through the side chambers while the students came through the main doors, early-risers yawning and rubbing their eyes, robes dragging on the stones. A sleepy Slytherin sat at the Hufflepuff table, then jerked himself backward, falling flat on the floor.

Fi snorted as she sipped her sweetened pumpkin juice. _Very graceful, Mr. Flint._

“Good morning, Fi!” Dumbledore greeted as he took up his chair, wearing crimson robes trimmed with canary yellow. “How was your visit with your family?”

“Lovely, Headmaster. They were very appreciative of your generosity in giving me the night off.” Actually, the coven witches had laughed themselves silly thinking about Fi having to answer to a wizard half her age like a naughty child being taken to task by a schoolmarm.

He waved away her sentiment with a gentle admonishment. “Of course. We want you to be comfortable here, Fi, and if you require another absence for any…personal gatherings, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

_That’s decent of him._ _Most modern wizards these days balk at thoughts of paganism_. “Thank you, Headmaster.”

Minerva took her place between them at that moment, adjusting her tipped hat and the set of her square spectacles. “Good morning, Headmaster, Delphinia.”

“Morning, Minerva.”

They broached the topic of Halloween, what had happened, and Fi was given a rendition of the stern lecture McGonagall had given her wayward Gryffindors. Fi was glad to not be the Head of any House. She couldn’t imagine having to be responsible for more than a hundred students residing in the same tower, least of all a gaggle of reckless, foolhardy boys and girls like those favored by Godric Gryffindor. She couldn’t conceptualize what could have possibly driven three first years to think themselves capable of besting a bloody troll.

Snape entered the Hall after the meal had already commenced. Fi noted something about him she hadn’t seen the day prior: a well-hidden, but unmistakable limp to the Potions Master’s typically austere gait. He took the empty chair between Fi and Quirinus without protest, though the aggravated sneer he tossed out for her benefit wasn’t missed. _Was he injured by the troll? I asked him if any of the children were hurt and assumed…._ Fi’s mouth popped open to inquire how he’d been hurt, but intuition told her to shut her gob and so she did. Her intuition was a keen resource Fi never hesitated to follow.

After breakfast, when full and still sleepy students fumbled their way out of the Hall, Fi followed Snape through the side chamber and through the portrait utilized by staff, calling out to the man as he limped toward the dungeon entrance.

“Oi,” she said, jogging to reach him, earning a raised brow in response. “What happened to your leg?”

Snape’s bored expression shuttered and became hard, his gaze flinty beneath a suddenly slanted brow. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Dullahan.”

She snorted. “You’re limping.”

“I am not.”

As they had not moved, Fi couldn’t prove her point, but she did fold her hands behind her back and rock on her heels, waiting with a patient, sweet smile that only served to irritate the wounded wizard more. Minutes passed. With a scalding breath, Snape ceded defeat and snapped, “It isn’t your concern.”

“Why haven’t you gone to Poppy? I imagine she could fix you in a trice.” _Perhaps he couldn’t go to her._ Fi didn’t think Professor Snape to be a needlessly proud person, though he suffered the usual stubbornness of male hubris all wizards clung to. He was not a fool, and he would have gone to Madam Pomfrey for assistance if he could, if only to spare himself this exact scenario. Fi lowered her gaze. “Let me see.”

“Wha—? I most certainly will not!”

“I can heal it.” Impatient, Fi made a hurrying gesture with her hand. “C’mon, then.”

“What skills do you think you could possibly possess that I do not? Do you think yourself a better witch than I am a wizard?”

“Morgana’s ghost, you’re in rare form today. Don’t be petulant, Professor Snape, I only wish to help.”

He gathered himself to his full height—an impressive feat, given his pain induced pallor and less than sure footing. “I assure you, your assistance is not needed nor wanted, Dullahan. I am fine.”

“Oh?” Lips pressed together, Fi made a show of walking past the wizard, brushing his arm with her own. “Well, I must be mistaken, then.”

She spun, hooking a foot behind the ankle of his uninjured foot, and gave Snape a very gentle shove. Startled by the hedge witch’s abrupt proximity—a breath of rosemary and crushed knotgrass filling his nose—he took an inadvertent step back with his weak leg. A gasp tore from the man’s mouth when he put weight on the limb and it collapsed under him, sending the Potions Master sprawling.

“ _Dullahan_ —!”

“Yes, yes, moral outrage and all that,” she sighed, waving a hand at Snape’s furious shout. He stared at her from the floor as if the witch had just cursed his entire family, his black hair disheveled and his eyes bright with fresh pain. “I’m quite serious about this and won’t be put off. Now, let me heal that leg, and you can challenge me to a proper duel—in which you’ll knock me on my arse, as I’m bloody wretched with a wand.” She extended a hand for him to take.

Snape glowered. Fi watched as he shifted his attention from her face to her hand, then about the empty corridor, which wouldn’t remain empty forever, not with students setting out for their lessons. He had to decide what would give first: his pride, or Fi.

She sighed again. “This is silly, Professor. Allow me to help a colleague so we may begin our day.”

He still looked like he may pop to his feet and hex her into oblivion for her heavy-handed goodwill. Finally, his jaw squared with resignation, Snape slapped his hand into Fi’s and allowed her to lever him upright—though, he mostly managed the feat on his own, his cold grip tight with lean muscle, the wizard a towering pillar of black cloth and tightly spun ire. Fi pointed at the nearest classroom and they went into it.

“Sit,” she said, nodding at the dusty desk stationed at the head of the room, and Snape sat on the edge of it, swallowing whatever retort he had brewing in that head of his. The grip he had on the desk’s lip looked hard enough to leave imprints, so Fi was simply glad he hadn’t gone for his wand.

Fi crouched on the floor before him and reached for his injured leg. Snape jerked it back without thought, and Fi could hear his teeth grind together. She rolled her eyes and met his suspicious gaze. “Come now, Professor. Stop acting like a Victorian lady swooning over a visible ankle. I’ve seen a man’s bare leg before, for Merlin’s sake.”

Embarrassed spots of color bloomed on his pale face, and Snape bent down to jerk his pant leg upward, folding the pressed cuff over his knee. “Get on with it, Dullahan.”

She had half a mind to mock his demanding tone, but she decided to ignore the urge, and instead ripped off the peeling bandage Snape had used a charm to stick to his skin. A fair amount of hair came away with the bandage and the professor jumped, seething. Fi chuckled. Then she inspected the wound, and her amusement faded.

“What did this?” she inquired, fingertips tracing the raw, infected bite mark, where teeth the size of small fingers had torn the flesh. Given the sheer size of the punctures and the fact that Snape hadn’t healed the injury himself, Fi knew it must have been a magical creature, though she couldn’t quite match the impression with any creature she knew. Not venomous, but perhaps cursed, if the angry color of the surrounding skin was anything to go by.

“That is none of your concern.”

“Well, it might be my concern. Is there a land-walking shark loose in the dungeons I should watch out for?” Fi started to rummage through her robe pockets, removing her wand, several little tied pouches, a barren coin purse, three empty Chocolate Frog wrappers, and several unlabeled vials shuffled without care. “Now where did I—? Oh, here it is.”

She held up a jar filled with a dubious looking concoction and proceeded to untwist the lid, dipping her fingers inside.

“What is that, Dullahan?”

“A family recipe.” At Snape’s uncertain expression, she elaborated. “Just a healing salve. It’ll take the infection out of these wounds.”

Of course, the salve was a simple cream meant for scrapes, but it did grant the proper ruse for Fi to lay a hand on the fidgety man’s person and force her Will into her fingertips. Head bowed, Fi’s eyes slid shut as she visualized the proper spell, knitting muscles, polishing scraped bones, pulling the flesh back together as she rubbed the salve in. _I hope it stings, you difficult arse_. She squeezed his leg and Snape hissed as her fingers dug into the bruised flesh.

The ragged incision healed before their eyes, leaving behind sore, pink skin and bloody residue.

“There we are,” Fi stated as she stood, stuffing her possessions back into her pockets even as she found a ripped flannel to wipe her hands clean. Snape flicked his hand, his pant leg seeming to roll back into place on its own accord. Glancing into his face, Fi decided he looked considerably less surly now that he wasn’t in pain. “There’ll be a bit of scarring, but nothing major, I’m sure.”

The Potions Master suddenly held out a hand. Fi stared at the long, thin digits in confusion.

“The salve, Dullahan. I would like to examine it.” Snape’s voice still carried all its notes of exasperation and boredom, but the dulcet snarling had been muted.

“Go for it.” She pulled the jar from her pocket and gave the container a careless toss. Snape caught it in a deft movement, though his eyes did flash a reproving look in the hedge witch’s direction. He unscrewed the lid, dropped it on the desk at his side, and dabbed some of the ointment onto his fingers.

“Dittany,” he declared, feeling the consistency, giving it a sniff. “Oppopanax. Flitterbloom, and….what else?”

“That’s the secret, isn’t it?” Fi said with a grin, snatching the jar back. She retrieved the lid as well, and was on her way out of the room, when she heard Snape intone a parting line:

“No. The real secret is how you managed to heal such an injury with what is basically a bruise cream.”

The door thumped closed after Fi’s swift departure.


	16. Tutoring & Weird Witches

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**\- Tutoring & Weird Witches -**

 

To be honest, Harry really didn’t know what to think of Professor Dullahan.

Ron’s brothers Fred and George would tell anyone who would listen that she was “the best professor around,” though they didn’t have her class. She was always very kind to Harry, but not in the same way other professors or witches were. Most sighed and, at one point or another, made some reference to him looking like his dad or having his mum’s eyes. Harry enjoyed thinking he was like his parents, but he had grown a bit exasperated by the comparison. He liked that Professor Dullahan didn’t seem to know who his parents were.

She’d attended Ilvermorny apparently, and Hermione had gone on at some length about the American school. Some of his classmates whispered her House there had been just like Slytherin, founded by one of his heirs, and that deep down the Professor was just like Snape, who hated Harry with a passion. Harry wasn’t sure, but it did make him a tad wary.

“She’s very helpful!” Hermione said, a fervent note in her voice as they walked along the corridor with Ron. “I’ve come by during her office hours before. She can be—.” Harry heard the hesitation in Hermione’s voice, and he knew his friend wasn’t completely sure of Professor Dullahan either. All the same, Harry was glad Ron and Hermione were coming with him today. “She can be a bit abrupt. I think sometimes her mind wanders and goes on tangents the rest of us aren’t privy to.”

Ron snorted. “She’s a nutter.”

“Oh, Ron, I wish you wouldn’t say that….”

They continued to bicker as they passed through the cold Magical Theory classroom and approached their professor’s office door. Harry knocked once, swallowing, and a clear voice called out, “Come in.”

Professor Dullahan was a short witch with thin features and a loose braid of black hair that fell nearly to her waist. Her eyes reminded him of Ollivander’s in some ways, pale and searching, but where Ollivander’s gaze felt oddly vacuous, Professor Dullahan’s was heavy, unyielding. Even Malfoy, the git, couldn’t meet her stare when he was being impertinent in class. Peace seemed to radiate from her, but it was a peculiar peace, a stillness before a storm that hovered but never came. He dreaded what it would be like to truly see Dullahan lose her temper.

“Hello, you three,” Professor Dullahan greeted from behind her desk, where she was reading a stack of essays and dipping her quill into an inkwell. A large, dark green bird perched on the back of Dullahan’s chair and gifted Harry and his friends with a hard, searching glare. Harry had heard the bird—an Augurey, the professor said—in class before, but he hadn’t seen it. It looked a bit terrifying and Harry had to swallow his nerves. “Need something?”

“We were, uh,” Ron said, also looking at the threatening bird with some reticence.

“We wanted to know if you would tutor us in Potions, Professor Dullahan,” Hermione finished for him. She’d been to the office in the past and had met the Augurey already.

“Ah, excellent!” Professor Dullahan stood and the bird hopped to her shoulder without her seeming to notice. Ron and Harry shuffled backward as she came around the desk, and sensing their apprehension, Dullahan frowned—then glanced at the glowering Augurey. “Puck, _shoo_ , you miserable pigeon. They’re not off-put by your sulking.”

Harry was very much off-put, but the bird obeyed the professor’s order and returned to his roost with an unhappy cry. Dullahan shook her head. “Sorry. He’s possessive of my time.”

The three students gave their teacher nervous smiles as she stood before them, hands on her hips, ink smudged on her fingers. “Yes, well. Potions! Potions, potions. Where should we begin? Is there anything in particular you wanted to ask? A specific potion, perhaps?”

They shook their heads. Harry felt odd getting help from Dullahan for Snape’s subject, but Hermione had pounced on the idea when he’d mentioned the conversation he’d shared with the professor before Halloween. A part of him wished he’d kept his mouth shut; he and Ron could have spent their free period playing wizard chess, or he could have gone out to the pitch to practice for the upcoming game.

But, such thoughts did him no good now, as he didn’t want to offend the professor by walking out of her office. Dullahan considered them for a moment, her lips forming a thin line, before she snapped her fingers. “How about we brew something simple, and I’ll walk you through the steps, and you can ask me to clarify which parts confuse you or give you the most difficulty. Good? Yes. Take two big steps back.”

They did so.

“Big steps, Potter, big steps.”

Harry retreated more, until he was nearer Ron. Dullahan removed her wand from her pocket, fumbling when the end caught on the fabric, before she set about waving it and silently incanting under her breath, eyes on the floor. Behind her back, Harry could see her moving her other hand, and he pondered if that was part of the spell, but he really didn’t know enough about magic yet to be sure. Dullahan bent to tap her wand on the stone underfoot—and, at the same time, touched it with her free hand.

Four pewter cauldrons just large enough to brew a mouthful or two of liquid appeared from thin air, accompanied by a selection of ingredients laid in neat little rows. Hermione gasped next to Harry, and Ron said, “Wicked.”

A few sparks sputtered from the end of Dullahan’s wand and the professor stuffed it back into her pocket. “There we go,” she said, tone light. “Now, just pick a spot and we’ll—.”

“Professor,” Hermione interrupted with a curious sort of breathlessness in her voice. Dullahan lifted a brow. “Professor, what spell was _that_?”

“A Conjuring spell, Miss Granger. It’s, ah, beyond your grasp at the moment.”

“Would you be willing to teach it?”

Dullahan shrugged, not quite meeting Hermione’s eyes. “Perhaps. Ask me when you’re older. Now!” She clapped her hands and changed the subject. “Pick a spot!”

They each chose the closest cauldron and followed Professor Dullahan’s lead, who sat cross-legged on the floor with a fluid, loose limbed grace Harry hadn’t seen in any of the other professors. _How old is Professor Dullahan?_ he suddenly wondered, though Harry knew speculating about a woman’s age was considered rude. He’d once asked Aunt Petunia and she’d shrieked herself hoarse with indignation.

All the same, though, Dullahan _did_ have silver in her hair at the temples, but the rest of it was just as dark as Harry’s, and she really didn’t look very old at all.

“Look at the ingredients,” the Professor said as she ignited flames beneath the cauldrons with a gentle wave of her hand. “Can you recognize which potion we will be brewing?”

Hermione’s hand shot up and the professor gave her an amused look, lips quirked. “Don’t say it allowed, Miss Granger. Let’s have Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter try to deduce for themselves first.”

Ron thought about it, poking a Pungous Onion, then said, “Oh! Mum used to make these.”

“Good, Mr. Weasley. Mr. Potter?”

It took Harry longer, his eyes glued to the porcupine quills and knobby ginger root—but, then, he remembered one of his first classes in Snape’s dungeon, the one where Neville had melted his cauldron and ended up having to go to the infirmary. “…Cure for Boils?”

“Exactly right,” Dullahan said with a grin. “I heard from Mr. Longbottom about a particularly nasty accident concerning this potion, and so I think it would best illustrate the point I mean to make. Brewing potions is very much an artform—.”

Harry had a sudden, vivid flashback to Snape drawling about the mystic art on his very first day, but Dullahan was smiling, and the sun came through the windows, and the gentle bubbling of the cauldron sounded almost _cheerful_ here.

“—and art can be heavily influenced by the tools utilized, by the usage of different pigments, different mediums, the quality of the canvas, the dye, the quill, the clay. Today, I would like you not to think on brewing the perfect potions; rather, I want you concentrate upon the ingredients, what their purpose is, how they interact with one another.”

“Sounds like Magical Theory class,” Harry blurted out, cheeks pinking when Dullahan’s strangely heavy eyes flicked to him. “You know, the bit about understanding how all the parts work in spells, not just what they do.”

Dullahan chuckled. “Exactly right again, Mr. Potter. Exactly right.”

They brewed for a time, Professor Dullahan explaining all the bits they put into the cauldron and what they were for, how they’d affect the potion, how the potion affected them, how the heat worked as a catalyst. To Harry, she was one of those people who could talk for ages and every word they said had meaning to it. Hermione almost botched her potion trying to write it all down, and Harry winced when he saw how she kept rubbing her sore wrist, ink speckled on her cheeks and hair.

“Miss Granger, may I see your notes for a moment? And your quill.”

Confused, Hermione handed them over, and Professor Dullahan waved her wand a bit, mumbling what sounded like nonsense to Harry, and snapped her fingers, handing the quill and notes back to Hermione. The eagle feather propped itself upright on the parchment, and as Dullahan began speaking again, it started to scribble out her words. Harry was certain Hermione might pass out from excitement, and Ron rolled his eyes.

“She’s only person I know who’ll grin like that over _more_ notes.”

Then Ron accidentally kicked his cauldron over—right onto Professor Dullahan’s leg. Harry, Ron, and Hermione leaped away from the mess, though Ron tried to right the cauldron and doused his hands in blistering boils for his efforts. Harry waited, breathless, for Dullahan to descend into a wrathful Slytherin vengeance worthy of Snape himself, since he could almost hear the Potions Master’s insults— _bumbling idiot, Weasley, have you any brains at all in that skull?_ —but she only sighed, wincing as she stood.

“I think that’s enough brewing for today,” she said, waving a hand. The cauldrons and mess disappeared, leaving behind nothing but blank, clean floor. “Do be more careful in the future, Mr. Weasley. As I understand it, you will be making several volatile potions in Professor Snape’s class over the years, and it’s important to be aware of your cauldron—and of the others around you.” Harry had to consider if she was thinking about poor Neville again.

“Yes, Professor,” Ron replied, his face peaky and his hands bright red. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s quite all right. Come over here, lad. Let’s get those hands seen to.”

Harry and Hermione stood off to the side as Professor Dullahan eased into the chair behind her desk, favoring the leg where the robes were drenched with potion, her attention going to the drawers jammed with all manner of things. She fished out a vial, sniffed, then wriggled the cork out.

“Hands forward, young man.”

Ron looked uncertain about presenting himself to the professor he’d doused in boil-inducing sludge, but he did as he was told, holding his hands out. Professor Dullahan poured clear gel from the vial onto Ron’s blisters, then rubbed the gel in, her own pale hands looking almost small compared Ron’s lanky fingers and palms. The sores subsided until his skin was its normal, freckled self.

“Thanks, Professor.”

“Be more careful,” Dullahan repeated, capping the vial as she rooted through her desk drawers for a clean flannel. “And not just with your cauldrons. I have been listening to some rather _choice_ stories about three young Hogwarts students thinking that going for a nice, old-fashioned troll hunt in the castle was a _good idea_.”

The ways she said “good idea” radiated the same disappointment as McGonagall’s best thin-mouthed stare. _She wasn’t even at the Feast_ , Harry complained in the safety of his own mind. _Why did the professors have to go and tell her about that?_

Their shoulders slouched at the same moment. “We’re sorry, Professor.”

“Don’t be sorry, just be _careful_. I would have been very upset if I’d learned any of you had been hurt, and you don’t want to see me _upset_.”

Harry really didn’t. Some part of him, some part primordial and not at all conscious, thought Dullahan might be more terrifying than Uncle Vernon. More terrifying than Snape, even.

“Yes, Professor.”

Her gaze lingered upon each of them, stern and colorless, her fingers drumming on the desk with the green bird leering in the background. Harry didn’t look at the skull on the shelf. He knew some Muggles liked to buy stuff like that, faux bones and fake spiders, though those Muggles weren’t anything like the Dursleys, who would have fainted dead away before buying something pretending to be so “freakish,” and Harry didn’t think Dullahan’s skull was fake. No, he was fairly certain it was real, and he did _not_ want to know how she’d gotten it.

She was basically a Slytherin, after all.

Finally, Dullahan smiled, relaxing into her chair, though she kept her injured leg stiff. “All right. Off with you, then, little terrors. I need to Floo Poppy—err, Madam Pomfrey.”

Ron went bright red and Harry didn’t have any idea what _Floo_ meant, but Hermione ushered them out into the cold classroom again, and Professor Dullahan snapped the door shut on their heels, the Augurey shrieking his farewells.

“I thought she was going to murder me,” Ron said, his face the picture of abject terror as he stared at his perfectly whole—if a bit sticky—hands. “Saw my life flash before my eyes and everything.”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione muttered, saying nothing else. She seemed preoccupied, her eyes fixed on the floor and her brow scrunched as it did whenever she was considering a particularly difficult spell.

“She’s a good teacher,” Harry commented. While he’d never been as awful at Potions as Ron, Snape’s hovering and snide comments always made him nervous, and he found it difficult to concentrate when he was worried about upsetting the terrifying man. Professor Dullahan reminded him a bit of Flitwick and McGonagall, with perhaps a dash of the Potions Masters mixed in. She could be as patient and good-natured as Flitwick, often trailing off onto tangents during lectures, chuckling at anecdotes or silly pranks, but she could also be as stern as McGonagall when she thought they were shirking their work. She was like Snape when she threw out dazzlingly hard problems that not even Hermione knew the answers to, then seemed puzzled when no one spoke up.

“She’s better than Snape,” Ron agreed, wiping his palms on his robes, leaving a slick stain. “But what is this stuff? Ugh—.”

“It’s odd, really.” Harry glanced at Hermione as she spoke in a soft voice. “The magic she does, I mean. In class, she always asks someone else to cast spells for her, as if she can’t do them herself, and yet I’ve seen her do both wordless _and_ wandless magic.” At Harry’s clueless look, she explained. “Well, that’s very advanced, isn’t it? Have you ever tried to cast a spell without saying the words or using your wand?”

Harry hadn’t, now that he thought about it. He’d committed a few acts of accidental magic that had earned him the ire of his relatives, but he had never been able to control those outbursts. “No. I never gave it much thought.”

“Most witches and wizards don’t, as it’s so advanced and can go terribly wrong if you don’t know what you’re doing—.”

“She’s a weird witch, Hermione,” Ron interrupted as they came back into the vault of stairs and the bell rang, signifying the end of their free period. “What do you expect? Mum always says ‘weird witches do weird things.’ Besides, it’s lunch time. C’mon, I’m starving….”

If there was one thing Harry could count on, it was Ron’s stomach being timely.


	17. Quidditch & Curses

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**\- Quidditch & Curses -**

 

Fi had never seen a Quidditch game before.

As a witch born and bred in the highlands who spent much of her time twiddling her thumbs in the wild country, she had seen brooms in use once or twice, but never as anything more than a tool for transportation or boyhood fun. Her friend Calvin Butterman had once bribed her after one too many servings of Ogden’s to get on one of the wretched things, and she had lasted perhaps two or three minutes before careening headlong into a chimney and breaking her back on the way down.

Suffice it to say, Fi very much preferred having both feet firmly on the ground like any good, respectable hedge witch would.

So she was surprised when Minerva knocked on her door just after the first week of November and poked her head in. “Delphinia, aren’t you going to the game?”

“Game?” Fi blinked like a befuddled owl for a moment, hunched over a large pile of essays in desperate need of marking. “What game?”

“What do you mean by _what game_? The _Quidditch_ game! Gryffindor versus Slytherin!”

“Oh,” was all Fi said. She couldn’t recall if Ilvermorny played Quidditch and thus if she was meant to know about it, so she settled on a polite remark. “Was that today?”

“Yes.” Minerva’s eyes—keen and shrewd, enough to put a bit of steel in Fi’s spine despite the hedge witch being four times the age of the other woman—flashed about the office and settled on Fi. “I’ve come to induce you into cheering for Gryffindor.”

“Should I not be rooting for Slytherin?”

“Severus would undoubtedly say so.” At that, Minerva’s lips quirked in a cat-like grin of mischief that Fi couldn’t help but mimic. The Transfiguration professor enjoyed tweaking Snape’s nerves just as much as Fi did. Something of his misanthropic and intolerant character begged to be tested, to be tried. Ever and the other members of the coven’s now long dead council would say Fi just liked seeing how far she could cross the line before she got hurled back over it. She was the textbook definition of a woman who would take a mile if you gave her an inch.

“Ah, well, how could I resist?” Fi shuffled her marked papers and set the stack aside, returning the quill to its stand. “Let me grab my cloak.”

Ten minutes later, they were hurrying into the tide of excited students running pell-mell across the grounds toward the distant pitch. Pomona and Filius joined them, the latter having to jog to the keep up with the long-legged stride of Gryffindor’s Head, and Fi felt for his plight, being a bit winded herself once they reached the end of the sloping hill. Her breath escaped in thin white plumes.

“It’d be a fine day for a match,” Pomona said, eying the clear and cloudless sky above as she drew the corners of her cloak closer. “If it weren’t so bloody cold.” She then proceeded to fish a flask out of a pocket filled with seeds and took a long draft. “Ahh, that’s better.”

Minerva flashed the pleasant woman a reproving look. She missed Fi’s lagging stride when the hedge witch slowed and wheedled a drink of her own off Pomona’s flask.

The stands surrounding the pitch were an amalgamation of red, yellow, green, and blue, great festoons of mascot flags, students jostling each other for seats as they thundered with excitement and general noise. Fi felt a general sense of alarm at all this: she’d never done particularly well in mob-like settings, disliking the crush of large Muggle cities, the roaring of rallies or protests or busy days in Diagon Alley. The calamity of it all needled with a poignant feeling of weakness and inability.

It was an odd thing to think of while at a sporting event.

By the time Fi settled herself in the staffing section of the stands, high enough for the ground to seem very, very far away, her desire to rib the Potions Master had subsided. She settled onto the wood bench at Snape’s side, the only Slytherin in a sea of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors and a smattering of Hufflepuffs. Minerva sidled into a front row seat by the student announcer—Jordan, Fi thought his name was—and Pomona sat somewhere behind Fi with Filius and Septima. Fi kept adjusting herself, rising and sitting, crossing and uncrossing her legs, until Pomona bumped her shoulder and handed her the flask again.

Snape’s eyes cut in her direction. “Have you _no_ discretion, Dullahan?”

Fi swallowed, eyes watering, and managed to gasp, “No, none whatsoever,” before handing the flask back to Pomona. A low, banking heat swirled in her middle as the cold bit through the layers of her navy cloak, disregarding the Charms placed on it to retain heat. The ancient struts keeping the stands upright creaked and groaned in the wind’s careless, cold hands, earning a grimace from Fi and a sharp shake of the head.

Above the chatter, she heard footsteps rising closer, voices nearing, and a familiar stuttering.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Fi muttered, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench at her side. “Snape, switch seats with me.”

The man didn’t deign her worthy of his menacing gaze. “No.”

“C’mon, just switch—.”

“No.”

Irked, she jostled him. “ _C’mon_ —.”

“Dullahan, you are an _adult_. Try to act as such.”

Biting back obscenities, Fi twisted about to see Pomona. By now, the stuttering had become apparent to the others, as Quirrell was speaking to one of the shop owners from Hogsmeade who had come to watch the match. “Pomona—.”

“Not on your life, Fi.”

She turned beseeching eyes on Filius, who promptly lifted his binoculars and fiddled with the dials, pretending he couldn’t feel Fi’s attention burning a hole through his head. By then, Quirrell’s purple turban was visible over the railing, and a moment later the wizard was settling on the empty bench at Fi’s side, the other wizard relegated a spot beyond Quirrell. Fi found herself trapped between two professors she’d rather not deal with at the moment.

“H-h-hello, F-F-Fi,” Quirrell managed.

“Hello, Quirinus.”

Pomona chuckled.

A chill that had no correlation to the mounting wind slid through Fi’s spine. _He gives me the creeps_ , she thought, peering at the Defense professor from the corner of her eye, colds hands clasped atop her crossed legs. She couldn’t explain her aversion to the soft-spoken Ravenclaw, of course. Something of his person seemed to prick her hind brain, a slight but persistent prod between her shoulders, urging her to turn around and _look_ , but Fi didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking for.

_Ever could figure it out_ , Fi mused. _If I could get Quirrell to hold her without passing out. She’d probably say I’m being ridiculous, avoiding a man with a speech-impediment and crushing fear._ She met Quirrell’s shadowed gaze and looked away, discomfited. _Then again, Ever didn’t hear him whispering and whimpering to himself in the room next to my old quarters at bloody two in the morning._

Fi shifted nearer Snape and considered giving up on this whole endeavor so she could return to her warm office.

The excitement crested as the players took to the pitch, carrying their brooms on their shoulders, the troop of emerald and the troop of crimson converging below with sharp-tongued Rolanda Hooch waiting for them. It appeared as though the two team captains were crushing each others’ hands as they shook.

Then, the students mounted their brooms and shot off like brittle bits of multi-colored glass shattered and tossed into the air. Fi couldn’t help how she stiffened, how her legs and arms locked as if preparing for a blow when the riders rocketed upward with far more finesse and intent than a typical wizard using a broom for transportation. One tiny, dark-haired speck rose higher than any of the others. She could appreciate the sport of it, the talent needed to direct and turn the broom with your knees and hands and how one needed to keep their body poised, fit, ready to dive and swoop and roll—but sod all if Fi wasn’t suddenly filled with a queasy sensation that wouldn’t dissipate.

Not being an utter numpty, she could decipher the basic purpose of the balls, the red Quaffle and the two Blunders or Bruggers or whatever they were called. The Snitch. The two red-headed mischief makers played for Gryffindor and wielded short clubs, whacking the black Brudgers toward other players, who employed swift dips and dives to evade the soaring projectiles.

Fi watched with a nauseous raptness. “Who looked at this bloody sport and thought ‘ _this is a good game for children_?’” she muttered under her breath, twitching with every _crack_! of a bat and shriek of the crowd. Fi fought the urge to cover her face with her hands.

“One would think you’ve never witnessed a game of Quidditch before, Dullahan,” Snape sneered as one of the Bludgers—as Jordan called them—swung quite near the staffing section. Fi jerked and kicked Minerva in the small of the back, mouthing a litany of apologies when her colleague glared. “It’s quite _popular_ at Ilvermorny, is it not?”

“So’s washing one’s hair, but obviously _some people don’t do what’s popular_ ,” came Fi’s frustrated reply. Had they been alone, Fi was fairly certain the seething Potions Master would’ve throttled her, but the wizard restrained himself from committing homicide while in the presence of so many witnesses. After the match, she would do more research on Ilvermorny. She hadn’t imagined such a small thing could put a dent in her assumed identity.

Fi returned her attention to the game, reigning in her need to flinch at the erratic movements of the students hanging dozens of feet above the flat pitch. Minerva occasionally elbowed Jordan to smother his biased commentary, not that her continued prodding seemed to have much effect on the boisterous youth. He kept tossing out a verbal stream of slander toward the Slytherin team, interspersed with relevant spots of information, seemingly unconcerned with Slytherin’s Head of House sitting directly behind him.

She snorted at the glower Snape levered at the back of the boy’s head.

Then, someone screamed.

Fi looked about, alarmed, the rumble of cheers turning to gasps and shouts, and only by chance did she turn her ear to Jordan when he said, “—looks like Potter’s lost control of his broom!”

Her head snapped up as she searched the pitch, only finding the boy when she craned her gaze toward the clouds. Potter had indeed lost control of his broom; he was holding on to the damn thing for dear life as it bucked and rolled, jerking with such ferocity it was a miracle he hadn’t been flung off already.

“What is happening?” Fi asked aloud, breathless. “Minerva—?” But Minerva had her hands clasped over her mouth, stricken, even as the Slytherins continued the game and the Gryffindor Beaters circled beneath their team’s Seeker.

_Is he—is he being cursed?!_

Her hand grappled for something, anything, and as her fingers closed around Snape’s stiff wrist, Fi realized that if anyone would have a level head in this mess, it would be the dour man at her side. He held himself straight, fists clenched on his thighs, dark eyes centered with unnerving focus on the flailing boy a hundred feet above their heads, his lips moving in rapid succession—and, for half a moment, Fi thought _Snape_ was the one cursing the lad. Could he be so deranged? To attempt to kill a boy over a wretched sport?

Then, through the voices raised around them, Fi heard him hiss, “ _Invenire statera_.”

_Find balance._

A counter-curse. The tongue-twisting syllables fell from the Potions Master in perfect repetition, and he didn’t spare Fi or her bruising grip an ounce of his attention. She turned to stare at Potter—at Harry—mind reeling in search of a spell that would aid the boy now clinging to his broom handle with one arm, but he was simply too _far_. The magic of a hedge witch could be powerful, devastating even, and yet most Charms in Fi’s repertoire that would help Harry needed preparation, time, the proper sacrifice, and _still_ the boy was too far away. Her magic didn’t extend outward—not without something like a bloody wand to enhance her reach.

For once, Fi had to concede that the old ways weren’t _always_ best.

Of course, the crowd of staff members was so horrified and entranced by what they were seeing, that no one noticed the fire until Fi already felt a warm, curious tickle against her ankle.

“Merlin!” Filius shouted. “Severus—Severus, you’re on fire, man!”

Blue flames licked up the long folds of Snape’s robes, where the fabric puddled and overlapped with Fi’s by their feet. Swearing, Snape jumped upright, which jerked Fi’s arm and all but threw her to the side. She elbowed Quirrell in the face on her way down, Pomona’s quick grab at the back of her cloak saving Fi from collapsing in a heap atop the stuttering professor. Snape stamped out the fire on them both, then righted Fi in her seat with pale fingers wrapped tight about her shoulder.

“Apologies,” the Potions Master seethed, eyes again on the sky.

To Fi’s relief, Harry’s broom had righted itself and he’d hooked his leg over it again—but then the foolish boy threw himself into a vertical dive that had the staff on their feet again, gasping, Fi’s grasp now on the back of Minerva’s cloak—until Harry pulled himself parallel with the earth and rolled lightly upon the grass, a spark of gold in his upheld hand.

The stands erupted in a chorus of cheers. A thousand voices cried the boy’s name as his teammates swarmed the field. Fi released Minerva, hands trembling, and the Transfiguration witch turned to regard the Magical Theory professor with amusement and worry.

“I don’t think I like this bloody game,” she wheezed, plopping on the unforgiving wood of the bench again. She ignored the stinging burn on her ankle and the charred edge of her cloak. _Merlin’s beard, who set me on fire? Why? Or was that meant for Snape?_

Next to Fi, Quirrell had not risen with the rest of the staff. He had maintained his seat—and a faint trace of red swelling had begun to obscure his right eye.

_Right. I struck him._ “Err—sorry about that, Quirinus,” Fi said, simpering. “I’ve got some balm that’ll set you to rights—.”

The wizard straightened. The wordless look of pure _malevolence_ he levered at her brought Fi short, and she could do nothing but stare, frozen like a deer sighting a too-close hunter for the first time as Quirrell rose and made to exit the stands with the other staff members.

Fi felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

_What was that about?_


	18. Paranoia & Snapping Flowers

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**\- Paranoia & Snapping Flowers -**

 

_Suspicious_.

By nature, Severus considered himself a paranoid and distrusting man. _Suspicious_ was a word that often rang in his thoughts, a word that almost continually plucked at the myriad of webs stretched taut about his consciousness, every discrepancy caught and cataloged by Hogwarts’ stern Potions professor. His high-strung and calculating mien allowed him to catch even the most enterprising of rule-breakers and to survive his tenure as a spy beneath the Dark Lord’s cruel thumb.

He kept his pockets filled with antidotes and his head full of questions.

The foremost question in his mind was, of course, _who_ had cursed the boy’s broomstick. He had his suspects, the foremost being Quirinus sodding Quirrell, but there were others too, conspicuous and inconspicuous, a line of faces and masks behind which the culprit was carefully hidden. He couldn’t imagine the stuttering ignoramus of a Defense teacher could manage that particular curse, but it _had_ been someone in the staffing section. The fire that threw off his own concentration had interrupted the attacker as well. The timing was too succinct to be a coincidence.

Dullahan. The woman triggered every alarm possible in Severus’ subconscious, and yet he didn’t think her the perpetrator of this particular crime. No, if she was guilty of anything, it was a rather absurd fear of heights, if he had to guess. The bruises on his covered wrist indicated the true strength behind her terror. She’d been utterly bewildered by Quidditch, and though Severus had to wonder if the woman had been living under a damn rock to not know what _Quidditch_ was, the anomaly wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

Somebody had made an attempt on the boy’s life right under his nose. Had Quirrell roped one of the village residents into helping him, either by choice or by Imperius? The staffing section of the stands had reeked of Dark magic after the match, though nothing conclusive could be found. Yes, a Dark curse had been preformed, and yet there must have been twenty trained witches and wizards sitting there when it had been cast, all capable of doing the spell had they the inclination to do so.

Albus said they needed to wait. They could not spook the traitor in their midst until he or she had shown their hand.

The whole issue _infuriated_ Severus.

He stepped from the castle into one of the outer courtyards, the bite of November air brisk against the exposed skin of his face. A pair of sixth year Ravenclaws jostled him as they passed through the archway, eager for warmth, and the more observant of the pair let out a small yip of fear when she realized they’d brushed their Potions professor. They scuttled away as Severus sneered.

Visions of the Dark Lord’s heretofore unknown servant getting hold of the Stone flickered in his thoughts and phantom pangs went through his left arm, prompting Severus to clasp the offending spot, drawing in a sharp, clearing breath. _It won’t happen_. He Occluded the offending suppositions into the mire of his shields. _I won’t let it happen._

He walked through the courtyard’s open terrace, footsteps silent on the flagstones, leaves skittering about the edges. Distantly, the sound of prepubescent voices echoed, first years spending Saturday afternoon on the grounds, chasing each other over the sloping lawns despite the inclement chill. Music followed the cheering and shouts, growing louder as Severus made for the steps.

His lip curled when Dullahan came into view. She lounged in one of the stone archways, legs sprawled and bent, a _lute_ of all things held loose in her grasp, her face turned toward the wind, toward the distant children playing on the grounds. Her foul-tempered Augurey sat perched on her raised knee and bobbed in time with the idle plucking of her fingers.

She made for an odd picture, her countenance lax, contemplative. His suspicions coiled in his middle.

“Dullahan.”

She glanced about, startled, the bird hissing at Severus as he stepped nearer the woman. The music cut off with a sudden _thwap_ of her fingers against the lute’s strings. “Oh. Hello.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Her brow quirked. “I’m sitting here. Thinking. What else could I be doing?”

Severus dropped a pointed look toward the lute and, spotting his attention, Dullahan gave the strings an idle strum. “Do you play?”

“No.”

“A shame.”

He scoffed. “Unlike _some_ , I have duties to fulfill. I don’t have time for such…pleasantries.”

Dullahan plucked the strings again, unperturbed by his tone or the derisive cut of his words. “Like I said, a shame. Don’t you know, professor, music is the oldest form of magic?” The corner of her mouth hitched upward, eyes sparking. “Well, that and—.” She coughed. “I think I’ll spare your delicate sensibilities, though.”

Severus scoffed again, louder and with more force, then turned on his heels and continued toward the exit. To his dismay, Dullahan scrambled to her feet and made to follow, lute and chattering bird in tow.

“Out for a stroll, Snape? Mind if I join you?”

“Yes, I do mind.”

She chuckled, strumming a tune as she kept pace, though Severus didn’t make it easy for her. He set off across the grounds, taking the steps down the grassy incline two at a time, his legs long enough to cover the distance. Dullahan tripped once and, despite his irritation, Snape slowed. Marginally.

“So did you—.” She slid on the frosted grass and the bird shrieked in her ear. “ _Ouch_ , ruddy bird! Can you _slow down_ , for Merlin’s sake? I wanted to ask if you’d found out who’d cursed Harry yet—.”

Severus froze and rounded on her. Though Dullahan only came up to his chin in height, she met his unnerving stare without hesitation, the blankness of her mind pressing against his own, _daring_ Severus to peer inside that skull of hers and slam his consciousness against the iron walls of her Occlusion. He knew it was petulant of him to be annoyed by her mental fortitude; like a child, it irked him that he could not simply look and see what he wished to know. The Headmaster’s old warnings about Legilimency being addictive came back to haunt Severus.

He shook himself. “ _Harry_ is it?” he sneered. “Have you joined Potter’s bandwagon of sycophants? I would have expected more circumspection from a _Slytherin_.”

“Hard to know what to expect from a Slytherin, really. Filius once mentioned you’d be pleased to have another from the House of Serpents about. Are we _really_ the only two on staff?”

Severus’ jaw ticked as he replied, her abrupt redirection of the conversation not going unnoticed. He found it odd how she identified easily with Salazar’s House and displayed no outward solidarity toward Ilvermorny. “No. Sinistra is as well, though I doubt you’ve seen the woman. She never leaves the Astronomy Tower.”

“Oh? We’ve met. We compared star charts.” Small fingers tapped the lute’s side, resulting in several thumps. “So… _do_ you know who cursed Mr. Potter?”

Eyes narrowing, Severus drew himself to his full height and shrugged his dismissal. Some aspect of the witch was…disturbing. He’d known it from their first encounter, of course, and time had done little to assuage the suspicious ruminations of his mind. Violence clung to Dullahan, an unrefined bite of something _other_ Severus could not define, eyes too old in a face too young, hands too quick, tongue too irreverent. Her smile whispered of secrets she made no true effort to conceal.

_She reminds me of Dumbledore_ , he realized, pausing. _Like she knows something the rest of us don’t._

Irritated, Severus didn’t respond to Dullahan and continued toward the Forest’s edge. The witch followed.

“Tell me; when did they decide to start calling the forest _Forbidden_?” she asked once they came under the fringe of the trees’ shadow. Dullahan struck up a quiet, distant melody on her lute.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, you don’t think it was always called the _Forbidden Forest_ , do you?” Dullahan snorted.

“It is also called the Dark Forest.”

“And the Black Forest, yes.” The song paused, then repeated. “…it was once known as the Forest of Tirn.”

Severus had never heard of such a thing before, and he cast a dubious glance in the witch’s direction.

“This was long before you or I were born, of course.”

“And how do you know this?” he drawled. “As I have been teaching here for twelve years and have never come across this information before.”

“My mother,” Dullahan answered offhand—then sputtered. “Wait, _twelve_ years? Bloody hell, you must have been little more than a boy when you received your mastery.”

Unpleasant memories prickled Severus’ recollection. “My apprenticeship was…rushed.” Sleepless nights stretching on without end, the smell of mixed fumes inducing nosebleeds, a high, cold voice whispering instruction, the gleam of guttering candlelight on a pale wand, the hard impact of flagstones on his knees as he fell to the floor and screamed until he spat blood between his teeth. Severus swallowed. “Your mother sounds quite…informed. Perhaps Hogwarts should employ her instead of her daughter.”

Dullahan let out a forced laugh. “Oh, I think you’d find my mother’s presence a tad more disagreeable than my own, professor.”

“I don’t see how,” he grated in response.

The witch hummed, dismissing his scathing comment, and returned her attention to the instrument in her hands. Nevertheless, she kept her pace in line with Severus, even when he stepped from the path into the dense press of undergrowth, setting off along a winding trail carved by the forest’s larger creatures. The cold deepened in the forest’s recesses, cutting through the Warming Charms on his cloak and robes, sinking into his joints with all the eagerness of wolf’s teeth.

Severus rubbed his hands together, lost in idle thought. _Perhaps this is why the last generation of pure-bloods aged and died early. The Dark Lord’s tender mercies are not kind upon the body._ He stopped, shuddering. _Were not. Were_.

He came upon his destination; a clearing set in a natural depression nestled between crowded pines and birches. “Mind your step,” he snapped at Dullahan when he remembered the woman walking behind him.

“Fine.”

Severus withdrew his wand and muttered the spell to dismiss the invisible buffer meant to keep various forms of fauna from trampling through the area. A paddock surrounded the space, but it had long fallen into decay, much of it collapsed and rotting into the damp, moss-covered earth. Dullahan found a perch on one of the last remaining struts and he thanked Merlin she wasn’t going to insist on following him around and asking inane questions about the more…dubious plants in the clearing. Plants he wouldn’t—couldn’t—entrust to Pomona’s care.

His wand returned to the hostler on his wrist as Severus knelt, retrieving a silver knife and a glass jar from his robes, setting the latter on the dirt as the dark bush before him began to rattle and hiss. Vivid yellow flowers, petals curled like serpentine fangs, peeked from the dense foliage and snapped at his encroaching hand, the whipping stamen much the same as a snake’s lashing tongue.

He managed to cut a few blooms well enough, though the _Laurus Viperidae_ eventually nipped his fingers. At that point Dullahan’s voice joined in with the simple melody she’d been strumming.

 

_Summer sun a listless burn_

_Of green leaves alight in oak and in fern_

_White mountain watch_

_The children dance in the Forest of Tirn_

_The children dance in the Forest of Tirn_

 

“Must you?” Severus growled as he retrieved the proper salve from his pocket and wiped it over the stinging skin of his forefinger.

“Yes,” came Dullahan’s surprisingly indignant reply. He raised a brow, but the witch returned to her song, attention on the Augurey swaying on her shoulder.

 

_Hear the wind unfurled_

_With song winsome and becoming twirled_

_The vigil will watch_

_Coming from the ring of the other world_

_Coming from the ring of the other world_

 

_All good lasses come to learn_

_For not those fair ones a girl should yearn_

_Turn ‘way, turn ‘way_

_Silver children from the Forest of Tirn_

_Silver children from the Forest of Tirn_

 

He wanted to snarl at her to stop, to leave, to be silent—but as he watched, the snapping yellow blooms swiveled on their stalks to stare at Dullahan, if it were possible for flora without ocular capabilities to stare. The plant responded to the steady, practiced rhythm of her voice, and Severus wasted no time in snipping the now docile flowers, peeling the petals to extract the valuable bulb of venom.

When Dullahan stopped singing, the plant once more persisted in its attempts to eat him alive, and Severus jerked back.

“What was…that?” he asked, reluctant, once he had the glass jar sealed and his knife cleaned. Dullahan stood and tucked the lute under her arm.

“’That?’ Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. The Viper Laurel isn’t placated by music or by singing. I have attempted both before.”

“Oh? _You_ actually _sang_? Mind a repeat performance?”

“What. Was. That?”

Dullahan lifted one small shoulder, and again Severus was struck by how much of Dumbledore he saw in her chiding grin. “As I said, Professor Snape; music is the oldest form of magic.”

She left then, twigs snapping underfoot, her Augurey leveling a final demeaning leer, leaving Severus to his illicit potions garden and unsettled introspection. _Suspicious_.


	19. Tickled Dragons & Strange Ravenclaws

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**\- Tickled Dragons & Strange Ravenclaws -**

 

The vampire frowned and released a final, lingering, defeated sigh as the hedge witch looked on.

“I cannot tell,” Grigor said as he turned toward Fi, sharp eyes glittering in the moonlight before his head tipped and shadowed his face once more. “Dark magic has indeed been cast, but it is muddled. They were careful to blur their signature, and I regret to say it is beyond my expertise.”

Fi wrinkled her nose and leaned into the railing at her back, ignoring the creak of the reinforced wood, the groaning of the empty stadium and the echo of the midnight wind spiraling through the stands. “Well, it was worth a go,” she replied.

Grigor fidgeted with the sleeve of his black robes for a moment, one foot on a bench, the other on the floor, his nose turned into the breeze and whatever scent it brought with it. He stared at the distant castle glimmering with torchlight despite the late hour and marveled at its mysticism, its beauty. It could steal a man’s breath away.

Grigor had never had cause to cross the ancient school’s formidable wards before, having been educated at Durmstrang in his youth—before his transformation, before those unremittingly dark years, before he escaped certain execution arm in arm with a pale-eyed hedge witch who had no respect for torch-wielding mobs or anti-vampire agendas. He had been surprised to hear from Fi so soon, then shocked by her request to meet her at the gates in the middle of the night.

That said, Grigor was somewhat…inured to Fi’s more outlandish wishes by now.

“I must confess, I am not entirely sure why you asked me to come check. Certainly you are more an authority on this matter than I?”

She shook her head, the fine filaments of her dark hair escaping the loose braid falling to the railing at her back. “Not in this. You know that.”

He considered her, wondering, then parted his lips in realization. “Ah. My pardon, _scumpa mea_. I had forgotten.” Delphinia may know magic in a way Grigor could never dream of comprehending—but deciphering the minutiae of a Dark spell’s origin could be difficult if you yourself were a thrumming embodiment of a Dark curse. Vampires could taste magic, could see the imprints of it if they lived long enough and turned their eyes from the lighter arts. Even now, Grigor saw the gray mist filling the staffing section of the stands, muddled by a thousand different smells, a thousand different bodies leaving ghosts of themselves behind.

Black shadows spilled from Fi’s chest and clung like spiderwebs to her flesh.

Grigor blinked.

“Aside from stray Dark wizards ruining sporting events, how has your time been here?”

Fi snorted. “The school’s barmy,” she muttered, though Grigor heard the fondness in her voice, the warm inflection of her words. “Utterly mad. An adult tries to curse a child off his broom, the Potions Master and I were set on fire, someone let a great bloody _troll_ in on Samhain, three _first_ years bludgeoned it half to death, and the castle can’t seem to decide if it wants to lead me to my office or abandon me in a oubliette.”

His lips twitched. “Surely there isn’t an _oubliette_.”

“There is. I found one in the dungeons. They seem to go on forever, my fanged friend, just floor after floor of black stone and dripping water.”

“It is proving a good…distraction though, is it not?”

Fi shifted and casted her eyes toward the black peaks of the forest’s trees. “Yes. I care about them, the students, the staff. I…I never thought I’d enjoy teaching as much as I do, not after…not after Mira.” Grigor flinched as the wind seemed to grow colder and an uncharacteristic look of maudlin introspection arrested Delphinia’s features. He blinked again, and the look was gone, a light smile taking its place. “It’s quite fun, though I miss my magic something fierce. Where did you get that wand you gave me? The damn thing can’t decide between shooting sparks or toadstools half the time.”

“I told you before you left the flat, you weren’t compatible with it. A wand chooses its wielder, Fi.”

“Fluff and nonsense.”

“It is not. You will need to go to Ollivander or hunt down Mykew Gregorovitch to find the wand meant for you.”

Fi continued to make several stubborn remarks about wands, wandmakers, wandlore, and just where sirs Ollivander and Gregorovitch could stuff their precious magic sticks. Grigor allowed the hedge witch her sullen rant, then cleared his throat and asked, “But you are happy here, yes? Despite your…misgivings.”

Puffing out her cheeks, Fi glowered, then remitted. “Yes,” she said. “I think if I found out tomorrow that these Death Eaters weren’t following me anymore, I would still want to stay. I hadn’t realized how lonely living in the cottage had become. I mean, I had Ever and Puck, but—.” She looked again toward the forest, then the empty stadium, and at last the castle beyond, where her charges slept nicely tucked into their beds. “It’s not the same. Not like before.”

A frisson of pain went through the vampire’s chest and he made a move as if to reach for her, then restrained himself. “Fi….”

She shook her head, balancing small fists on her hips as she shifted her weight off the railing. “Ah, hanging about with vampires after dark’s making me a bit morose, isn’t it?”

Grigor smiled despite himself, sharp teeth on display. “A bit, _scumpa mea_. A bit.”

“I should go find Snape on his patrol. The man’s always good for a laugh. I don’t think he understands his aversion for my person borders on the absurd and hilarious. Poor bloke _loathes_ me, and he also has a bloody suspect for the curse but won’t tell me a thing.”

Fi turned to the steps but Grigor did not. The vampire stood without taking a breath, his eye turned inward toward the morass of his own thoughts, digging through decades of memories, coming upon a scene viewed from behind a mask of bone and Dark magic; there a crowd of black-clad individuals gathered about an unholy throne, young wizards and witches— _children_ fresh from the hands of their exasperated professors—kneeling on the flagstones at the feet of a snake-eyed demi-god with their left arms bare.

And soon, bare no longer.

A boy with long, uncombed black hair covering his face trembled with pain as the Mark sunk into his sallow flesh.

“ _Rise, Severus_.”

“Delphinia—.” Grigor hardly breathed. “You said Snape. _Severus_ Snape?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

A hiss left the vampire, the former, unwilling servant of a Dark Lord. “He’s a _Death Eater!_ ”

Fi paused and turned to meet his gaze, no levity in her eyes, only a stark kind of scrutiny that could flay the flesh from lesser men. “Explain.”

“What more is there to explain? I was _there_ when he was…Marked. Not a mere toady, either.”

The hedge witch said nothing for several moments. Indeed, Delphinia seemed to not _see_ Grigor at all as her brow furrowed and she stared at some distant point in space, mulling over inscrutable thoughts. “Hmm. Some things are not…lining up. He was the one who enacted the counter-curse on the broom, and the one who interrogated me about the troll when he thought me to be perpetrator. He doesn’t know who I am, either, not like those chasing me. Oh, he likes to make snide comments about my oddities, but if he were a Death Eater—or, should I say, _active_ Death Eater—wouldn’t he be on my trail, like the others?”

“It would be a very poor organization indeed if every soldier was given the same orders, Delphinia,” Grigor chastised. “I know only what I am telling you now. He was the Dark Lord’s potioneer. Our paths crossed on occasion, given the more scholarly set of our respective tasks. Perhaps he is not affiliated with the fold currently seeking you; nevertheless, he was a member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle. Please be…cautious, Fi.”

Lost in thought, she nodded, and before Grigor could repeat his solemn plea for her attention, Fi dipped her small fingers into the pocket of her navy robes, jostled through the inner contents, and retrieved a flat stone the color of birch bark. She whispered to it, magic furling, and before his eyes Grigor watched a green rune for Eihwaz inscribe itself on the stone’s smooth face.

Fi flipped it once, twice, three times, and the rune flared a steady viridian before crumbling to ash.

“Bugger,” she sighed. “A simple rune of intent—.” She gestured at the mess on the front of her robes before giving her wrist an idle flick to banish the remains. “But it can’t make it past the castle’s wards. I doubt it’d work anyway, given the man’s an Occlumens.”

“Isn’t there an old expression claiming only those with something to hide have shields in their minds?”

She snorted. “It’s not always nefarious,” Fi chided, gesturing between the two of them—two Occlumens themselves, both with their own secrets they wished to keep private. “Closing one’s mind is not Dark, and I’ve hardly met more than a handful of Occlumens in my life—outside of the coven, of course. Being private doesn’t condemn a man…though, the tattoos of madmen do deserve a bit of thought, don’t they?”

Grigor grunted. Conscious of her crippling fear of heights, he held out his arm and Fi took it, leaning into the vampire’s support as they descended the crooked stairs. They crossed the yellowing grounds, two cloaked figures barely distinguishable against the backdrop of late autumn trees, unseen creatures rustling in the forest depths, watching but never approaching, not when Grigor’s eyes gleamed like garnets in the moonlight and Fi spun spells with nary a breath of effort given.

He looked toward the looming castle, a half-formed idea bobbing about the surface of his mind like flotsam dislodged in a summer storm. He could kill Severus. To be sure, he held no particular ill will against the man—no more than he bore the rest of Voldemort’s servants, himself included, but the vampire worried. Fi may dismiss the Dark Lord as yet another overzealous Dark wizard lost on a bender of power—but Grigor had stood in his presence, had witnessed his abilities, his ire, his mirth. His followers were many and varied, a thousand different eyes in a thousand different places, watching, waiting, scheming.

Delphinia Dullahan was a powerful witch, but Grigor did not like her chances against the Dark Lord.

So, he could kill Severus Snape. Not an easy task, no, if he were to take him as a wizard, but vampires were quick, silent, and deadly without ever touching a wand. He could end the man. He could do so without remorse to ensure Fi a measure of security and safety in her new life here, but Grigor found the idea of committing murder in a school for children…perverse.

If only all Death Eaters, former or not, felt the same.

“Grigor.”

Sighing, he brought his attention to Fi again as they approached the castle gates. “Yes?”

“You’re looking, ah, particularly _murderous_ , my friend.” The corner of her mouth quirked, a dimple forming in her smooth cheek. “Leave Snape be. You do know the school’s motto, do you not? _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_. Never tickle a sleeping dragon.”

“I wasn’t thinking of _tickling_ him,” Grigor grumbled, arching his body away from the castle, away from the inevitable lure of fresh blood and temptation. “Is that honestly the school’s motto?”

“Yes.”

“How odd.”

“I like it.”

“I imagine you would.”

Her teeth flashed in a wide grin as gravel crunched underfoot and they approached the gates. Fi extended a hand, fingers flexing, and the wards relaxed in increments, allowing one side of the barrier to creak open just enough to admit a slim vampire. “Thank you for coming, Grigor. We may not have found anything, but it does my mind good to know we tried.”

“Your criminal _will_ get sloppy.”

“Hopefully before a student is injured.” Her smile fled.

“Of course.” Leaning forward, Grigor placed a pale hand upon his chest and dipped into a small bow. “Give my regards to the High Witch, _scumpa mea_.”

With that, the vampire crossed the wards and Disapparated into the night.

 

* * *

 

_I wonder if I should warn Snape to check under his bed for vampires for the next month or so._

Chuckling, Fi decided against being the bearer of bad news, though maybe she should insist he ask Quirrell for some of that odious garlic the man stuffed in his turban. It wouldn’t hurt Grigor, but it would definitely put him off his meal.

Fi crossed her arms over her chest, conserving warmth as she wandered toward the main entrance and the inviting flicker of lit torches. _So Snape’s a Dark Lord servant, is he? I wouldn’t have guessed. The wizard doesn’t seem the type to stomach megalomaniacs or sycophants. Ah, well, neither does Grigor._

Lost in thought, she opened one of the great doors with an indolent flick of her finger, the heavy thing swinging inward upon large, silent hinges, though the inert locks clicked and jostled against the movement. She closed it again with another flick, and as Fi made to cross the stone foyer and the white light of the moon disappeared behind the solid barrier of the door once more, she caught a flare of blue in the corner of her eye.

“Oi,” Fi said, startled by the sudden appearance of a young student standing at the top of the dungeon stairs. A Ravenclaw, if she could believe his blue tie and the bronze piping about his starched collar. She studied the sharp, Eastern cast of his features, the untidy part of his mussed black hair, the crook of his eerie, childish grin. One of his dark eyes was an odd, electric blue. _Heterochromia_ , the Muggles called it. One of the witches in the coven had been struck in the face by an exploded bit of cauldron and her afflicted eye had taken on a similar hue.

Fi hoped no one had struck this boy in such a manner.

“What are you doing out of bed? It’s quite late.” It was far, far past curfew. “Five points from Ravenclaw, Mr….” _Wait. Wait…who is he? Why don’t I know him? Isn’t he a first year Ravenclaw? Don’t I have all the first years?_

“Mortimer,” the boy replied, voice high and amused, half his countenance caught in the shadows. “Seth Mortimer… _ma’am_.” He chuckled.

“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” she said with a huff, one hand propped on her hip and the other pointed toward the stairs. _Why don’t I recognize him_? “C’mon, off to Ravenclaw Tower we go. Morgana knows how long it’s going to take us to get there….”

“Haven’t you been looking for me?”

Fi froze. “What?” Looking for him? Fi had most certainly not been looking for anyone. No, she’d been thinking of her cozy office, her divan, and perhaps the possibility of sneaking into the kitchens to steal a mug of hot chocolate from the house elves. “Err, should I be? Are you lost?” Maybe she should find his Head of House.

As her mind turned toward wondering where Filius’ quarters might lay, Fi’s head physically turned as well, her attention flicking in the direction the waiting stairs and the vault beyond, where the whisper and groan of stone upon stone resounded. She only looked away for a moment, but in that brief interim, the boy had vanished.

“What—?”

Fi went to the dungeon steps, and the narrow passage plunging into the castle’s somnolent depths gleamed with tapered torchlight, revealing a hallway barren of any students. The hedge witch stared. He was gone.

“Oh, excellent,” she breathed. “Now I’m being haunted by strange little Ravenclaw children, or I’m going mad, one of the two. Neither option is appealing, really. This whole school is utterly _barmy_.”

One of the suits of armor lining the wall clapped its visor in affront.

“Yes, completely mental.”

As Fi went off in search of her office, she played the events of the night over in her mind, again and again coming to that odd statement given to her by the equally odd boy.

“ _Haven’t you been looking for me_?”


	20. Wiggenweld & Fancy Hats

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**\- Wiggenweld & Fancy Hats -**

 

The hiss of flames under peculating cauldrons unnerved Harry more than he’d ever admit.

Everything about the dungeons had that same gloomy feeling to it in Harry opinion—especially the glowering professor who swept up and down the aisles between the tables as Harry’s classmates did their best to brew the Wiggenweld potion. Snape’s robes stirred around him like ink seeping through water whenever he stopped to leer into someone’s cauldron, the man always seeming to be in motion, never pausing overly long before resuming his pacing.

_Ignore it,_ Harry chastised himself, pressing his lips into a firm line as he returned his attention to his own brew. Next to him, Ron muttered under his breath and used curse words his brother Percy probably would have screamed at him for saying, stirring his potion. _Like Professor Dullahan says, you won’t always have the best conditions for brewing. Distractions have to be dealt with_.

Harry hadn’t been sure what to think of the Magical Theory professor—not for quite some time. His opinion on her had taken the longest to form of any of his teachers, because the witch was just so… _odd._ Odd in a way that Harry had decided he very much liked, but odd nonetheless. Ron called her weird and he agreed, but he privately thought that perhaps being normal was overrated.

After all, the Dursleys considered themselves the prime examples of being _normal_ , and Harry would much rather be _weird_ like Professor Dullahan than _normal_ like his stupid relatives.

He’d continued the professor’s weekly tutoring sessions with Hermione and a grumpy Ron, and Harry had come to realize he actually _liked_ potions. He looked forward to those afternoons where he and his best friends would sit cross-legged on Dullahan’s office floor, sunlight coming through the windows, cauldrons simmering, the professor trailing off on strange stories that made no sense to anyone aside from her but were full of such _magic_ and wonder and mystery that Harry couldn’t help but listen to every word.

He tipped salamander blood onto a clean spoon and let it dribble slowly into the cauldron.

“ _Control what you put into the mix._ ” Professor Dullahan’s voice echoed in Harry’s ears. “ _Nice, even increments—no splashing!_ ”

The murky liquid in the cauldron turned a dense shade of mustard yellow, and Harry added two more drops of salamander blood, tongue pressed between his lips as he concentrated. The color became more of a buttery, sunshine gold. He lifted his ladle to give the potion a few careful and deliberate clockwise stirs, twisting the liquid into a vivid lime green.

Harry found that he understood things better when Professor Dullahan explained them. So did Ron and, to an extent, Hermione—though she always paled as if pained when the professor said “ _The books aren’t always right. They’re someone’s interpretation of information and can be more a suggestion than anything_.” The other professors taught well, Harry knew, but their lectures and practicals didn’t _click_ the same way.

Hermione guessed it was because they were all prodigies in their fields—McGonagall, Flitwick, even Snape. “ _Well, it’s quite difficult for them to understand why some students struggle_ ,” she’d said when Ron had complained about Dullahan making more sense than their seething Potions Master. “ _They picked up the skills easily and have intrinsic knowledge of what to do. I don’t think Professor Dullahan is like that. She must have had to learn what she knows the hard way_.”

Harry wasn’t sure what ‘ _the hard way_ ’ entailed, but he and his marks were grateful for the professor’s odd tales and chipper patience.

He continued to doll out the salamander blood and stir when necessary, the Wiggenweld changing from green to turquoise to indigo, pink, and finally red. Before tutoring, Harry probably would have dumped all the blood in at one go and feverishly stirred in hopes of setting the color to rights, but he’d since learned about heating, layering, dispersing, and dissolving—all those types of things Harry would of disregarded before, not realizing how that impacted his work.

“ _A potion isn’t just a mishap of things. Every step and ingredient has a purpose you need to recognize._ ”

Harry scratched his nose as he squinted at the blackboard. _Five lionfish spines, crushed_. He lowered the heat by lifting the cauldron higher on its stand, then set about plucking the proper spines from his potions kit. _Crushed…not pul—pulv—pulverized. That’s when the ingredient’s meant to be a fine powder, and if it’s in a fine powder it’s meant to be…._ Harry pulled a face as he tried to remember Dullahan’s exact words. _Dissolved. If it’s crushed, it’s meant to be dispersed, changing the…texture. Not the consistency. Is that right_?

He peeked toward Hermione sitting on the other side of Ron.

“Eyes on your own cauldron, Potter.”

Flushed, Harry dropped his gaze back onto the mortar and pestle into his hands and quickly kneaded the sharp spines. Snape paused before his table, visible in the peripheries of Harry’s vision, then moved on. Normally their class created potions in pairs, but today was the end of term practical. He was on his own.

A faint hiss arose from the potion as he added the first five spines then crushed the next five while he waited for the red color to heat into the proper yellow. He continued working, stirring and heating and gagging at the addition of flobberworm mucus, pausing to consider what he was doing, as Professor Dullahan had said it was important to understand the reason behind every step in the brewing process. Stirring clockwise or stirring ‘ _widdershins’_ did different things—like crushing versus pulverizing, or dicing versus slicing versus cubing versus mincing.

It was all very complicated, but Harry thought it strangely…satisfying when he got a potion right.

Finally, he added the Honey water and a drip or two of boom berry juice. He set the nearly completed concoction to simmering and stood back, exhaling with relief. Snape passed by once more in his rounds.

The liquid inside his cauldron was meant to be turquoise and Harry had come quite close, though the potion was a slight shade too green. Peeking toward his friends, Harry saw Ron’s potion had erred too close to yellow and the redheaded was adding more Honey water in effort to fix the coloring, while the brew waiting before Hermione had just the right hue of turquoise to it.

_I think I crushed the lionfish too much_ , Harry decided as he crossed his arms and considered his own work. _I think the…venom in the spines didn’t have enough time to heat before dissolving because the bits were too small._

Harry wished he could ask Professor Dullahan—or that Professor Snape wouldn’t snarl if he posed the question to the man himself.

Class came to a close and Harry bottled a sample of his Wiggenweld, scrawling his name on the label, bringing it to the front of the room. He had only just placed it in the wire rack with the others when Snape said, “Remain after, Potter.”

Harry froze. He exchanged looks with Ron—who shot Snape a filthy grimace when the man’s back turned—then returned to his station to clean up. The others filed out the door and he watched them leave with a morose expression, wondering what Snape could possibly want.

The door closed with an ominous squeal of untended hinges. Snape returned from stalking the far side of the room, where he’d been cleaning up someone’s spilled boom berry juice, went to his desk and, once there, retrieved Harry’s deposited potion. He held it between two long, pale fingers, and judged it against the fluttering light of a candle.

“Tell me, Mr. Potter,” the Potions Master drawled, his black gaze lifting to settle on Harry. The boy felt the present scorn pressing down upon him. “What do you think the school’s policy is on _cheating_?”

Harry flinched. “Ch—? Why—?” Heat rose into his cheeks, his voice infused with an indignation he didn’t usually let the professor hear. “I didn’t cheat!”

“Do not lie to me, Mr. Potter.” Snape swooped down upon him—because Snape didn’t do anything as casual as _walk_ ; no, Snape swooped and stalked and glided, smooth and quiet and always, _always_ just shy of utterly threatening. “Your creations in my class thus far have been various degrees of dreadful and thoroughly incompetent. Imagine my _surprise_ when you manage to brew a nearly perfect sample of Wiggenweld for your exam.”

“I did not cheat,” Harry repeated, eyes bright, words heavy. “I’ve been….” Sudden embarrassment reared its ugly head, and Harry mumbled the last part of his statement.

“Mind repeating that, Mr. Potter?” Snape sneered.

“Tutoring,” Harry retorted, his posture stiff, eyes on the edge of the desk where Snape’s splayed hand lingered. He had scars and calluses on his fingers, blotches where potions had stained the skin. “I’ve been getting tutoring.”

The Potions Master hadn’t been expecting that. He paused, then asked, “And who has had the dubious pleasure of your lackluster tutelage? Granger?”

“No, Professor Dullahan.”

An odd choking sound answered Harry’s words, and so he glanced up, wondering what that had been about, but Snape composed himself in an instant, his face as blank and hateful as ever. “ _Dullahan_?”

“Yeah.”

“‘ _Yes,’_ not ‘ _yeah_.’ _Yes, sir_ , Potter.”

Harry frowned. “Yes, sir.”

The professor glared, but the anger in his eyes distanced itself, replaced by a vague form of curiosity. Snape didn’t seem to believe him. Either that, or he didn’t believe Professor Dullahan could make potions. “The _Magical Theory_ professor is tutoring you in _Potions_?”

“Yeah—yes. Is there anything wrong with that? Sir?”

Snape looked like he very much wanted to say something scathing, but the professor restrained himself—and for the life of him, Harry couldn’t imagine why.

“No,” came the answer, Snape’s eyes narrowing, attention drifting before his glare returned in full force. “Tell me: what did you do wrong?”

“Sir?”

“In the _potion_.”

“Oh.” Shrugging, Harry quelled under the continued scrutiny of his professor and instead glanced at the Wiggenweld Potion still held in Snape’s practiced grip. “I, er, crushed the lionfish spines a bit too much?”

A long moment of blank staring passed before Professor Snape jerked his chin once in affirmation, lips twisting. “Get out, Potter.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

“This weather is wretchedly cold.”

“You can’t get cold, Ever.”

“Impertinent whelp. I _can_ get cold. I can feel it in my bones.”

Fi choked and lifted her quill’s tip from the parchment before she could mar the letter. “Was that a—?”

“Don’t you _dare_.”

“—pun?” An inkwell thrown by an invisible hand came soaring toward Fi’s head, smashing on the floor and prompting a loud shriek from Puck as ink crept over the stone floor. “You can’t be _that_ cold if you’ve the strength to hurl things at me.”

A handful of quills followed, but the effort was feeble, tired. Fi, however, acknowledged her mentor’s complaint about the chill and watched the snowflakes plaster themselves to the glass panes of the windows. Hogwarts was quiet. The remainder of November and much of December had been routine, alarmingly so, lectures given and exams proctored, homework graded and marks awarded. No one had been cursed. No dangerous creature had gotten loose.

It seemed almost too…simple.

Fi rose and retrieved a clean flannel from the pocket of her green robes, concentrating on Transfiguring it into a padded hat. She plopped it over Ever’s cranium. “Better?”

“…I suppose.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Fi asked, miffed. “It’s a perfectly acceptable hat.”

Ever grumbled something in Pictish that Fi had no chance of understanding, which sent the hedge witch out of her office in a huff, her nose pink from the chill nip in the air, robes snapping in her wake. “Getting told off by a bloody skeleton,” Fi muttered as she walked. “Doesn’t even have _nerve_ endings to get cold and still hasn’t stopped whinging since the first snowfall. Bloody Ever.”

Hogwarts echoed with the resounding silence and occasional scuff of Fi’s soft-soled shoes. Term had only just ended, and yet the castle felt incredibly…empty. Fi knew, logically, that this was an accurate summation: the school _was_ empty, as the vast majority of children had scuttled off to their homes for the break, and yet…and yet they seemed to take so much _more_ with them when they left, something aside from their own bodies or trunks or troublesome pets.

Fi couldn’t put her finger on it, and she was quite put out to be spending the Yule alone rather than with the coven. They might be dead, but they made for better company than cold stones or an irritated High Witch.

Frustrated by the quiet and her own restlessness, Fi rounded a corner and almost ran headlong into the Deputy Headmistress.

“My apologies, Minerva. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” the witch said, straightening herself. Fi noticed she carried a few bound scrolls beneath her arm, and as if sensing Fi’s wandering attention, McGonagall took one of the scrolls in hand, proffering it. “Severus is acting quite…odd. He asked me to give this to you, but not to mention it was from him.”

Fi snorted as she spun the scroll around. “I think you might have failed on that last bit.”

Minerva’s thin lips quirked, eyes bright behind her square glasses. “I decided that if the man has gotten it into his head to curse you, I might as well give you forewarning.”

Chuckling, the hedge witch spun the scroll again—checking for spells, mind returning to that night in November when she’d stood in the dark with Grigor hissing about Snape being a Dark Lord lapdog—but no magic could be found aside from what lingered in the ink itself. Fi snapped the seal and scanned the inner missive.

Her brow furrowed. _What’s he playing at_?

“…Delphinia?”

“Hmm?” Fi lifted her gaze and found Minerva studying her, waiting, an equal mix curious and—if Fi wasn’t mistaken—worried. “Oh, it’s nothing. A list of book recommendations I asked for.” The pitiful excuse did nothing to assuage McGonagall’s wry stare and Fi couldn’t blame her. _Book recommendations, honestly_. “…I’m going to go have a word with him.”

“You do that.”

Fi scurried off, scroll in hand.

She was no stranger to the dungeons: no, in fact it seemed Fi spent every patrol shift cursing the castle for leading her to some abyssal hole in Hogwarts’ damp depths, wandering in the dark with her worthless wand in hand, coaxing flimsy streams of _lumos_ light from the tip. She once found a hall filled with a hundred empty portraits, every painted occupant hiding or absent, and another time tripped into a storage cupboard crammed with headless statues.

Needless to say, Fi had a very dubious relationship with the school’s dungeons, though she’d never had the excuse to go in search of Snape’s office before. Doing so now, she almost felt disappointed in the normality of it, the interspersed torches, the floor underfoot dry and made smooth by a thousand different feet treading upon it throughout the centuries. She passed the bare stretch of wall she knew the Slytherin common room was behind and continued on to a slim door located between two portraits of Salazar descendants hissing inquiries at one another. The door opened to reveal a narrow set of twisting stairs, and at the bottom, Fi banged her fist against another door, this one bearing the plaque ‘ _Office of S. Snape._ ’

“Enter.”

The interior of the Potions Master’s space was much as one would expect from the dour man: dark, cool, cluttered from floor to ceiling with all manner of bizarre jars, worn cupboards, and notebooks that thrummed with nasty hexes. A fire banked low in the large hearth, the grate in need of cleaning, various animal bones strewn across the dusty stone mantel. Fi found it amusing they both kept skulls above their fireplaces.

Snape himself sat behind a large desk covered in texts—and he was not alone.

“Oh,” Fi said upon spotting Albus sitting across from Snape, the Headmaster bright and resplendent in the otherwise dim space. On his head perched a hat of bright crimson and orange, a phoenix feather stuck through the cap’s golden band. _Blimey. Where does he get his fancy hats?_ “Hello, Albus. Sorry for intruding.” Something in one of the jars at Fi’s eye-level squirmed and she turned to inspect it. “Neat.”

“Dullahan,” Snape intoned, glaring. He bent the quill in his hands until it almost snapped. “Is there a point to this visit?”

“Must there be?”

“Yes. I would hope you’re clever enough to not waste my time otherwise.”

“Ha,” Fi replied, her expression flat, pale eyes harsh in their scrutiny. They continued to stare at each other, immobile, and the Headmaster looked between his two professors with amused glaces before standing.

“Well, Severus, I believe you are needed. We can finish our conversation later.”

“Of course, Headmaster.”

Albus passed the hedge witch still standing near the entrance and smiled. “Good afternoon, Fi.”

“’Lo, Albus.”

No sooner had the door snapped closed on the Headmaster’s heels then Fi stuck a hand into her robes to retrieve the crinkled scroll, jabbing it in Snape’s direction. “What is this?” she demanded. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The Potions Master stiffened. “What does it looks like, Dullahan? It is a lesson plan—though obviously Minerva has trouble delivering letters with discretion.”

“Yes. A lesson plan. _Your_ lesson plan, for next term, for the first years.”

“So you _can_ read. Will wonders never cease?” Snape rose, eyes averted, retrieving the cup and saucer abandoned by Albus on the edge of his desk. He tossed the cold contents into the hearth with a flick of his hand, and though the smoldering flames guttered and hissed, they did not go out.

Fi watched the straight line of his back. “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” He set the cup and saucer on the mantel without turning. His voice came out hard and clipped, annoyed. “You are tutoring Potter and his dunderhead lackeys, are you not? Is it not more convenient with a lesson plan?”

“…yes?”

“There you have it. Simply continue to do so, and…take in Longbottom as well.”

Fi blinked. “Now I _really_ don’t understand.”

Snape whipped about and extended his hand, striding toward the hedge witch, frank anger sparking behind his black eyes. “Then give it back and get out, Dullahan. I’ve no patience to explain simple logic to you.”

She did no such thing. Fi tucked the lesson plan out of sight again, though she did level a challenging look toward Snape, her chin lifted and her arms crossed. The man presented an odd enigma Fi couldn’t quite puzzle out: given some thought, she’d come to assume that the Potions Master came down hard upon Potter and the Gryffindors because of his shadowed past—though, whether or not that past was truly _passed_ still hadn’t been answered, but that remained a different issue entirely. A servant of the erstwhile Dark Lord would want to see the Boy Who Lived fail, wouldn’t he? That would make sense, however unfair it may be.

What didn’t make sense was aforementioned servant handing Fi the tools to better teach Harry and thus ensure his _success_.

_Why all this scatterbrained, Merlin-esque complication?_

“It’d be easier if you just weren’t such a terror in your classes,” Fi commented, leaning her shoulder on the shelf at her side. A jar of Murtlap tentacles quivered. “Then they wouldn’t need tutoring in the first place.”

Snape’s expression hardened, but he didn’t don one of his exasperated grimaces or distasteful sneers. Rather, the man peered at Fi with a look near mistrust, unknown thoughts waging war inside that thick skull of his, far beyond the knowledge or perusal of curious hedge witches. “It is not your place to question my behavior in my own classroom. You are not the Headmaster, nor the Board of Governors. My actions are done for a _reason_ , Dullahan, and you would do well to _remember_ that.”

“Fine,” Fi sighed. The word _why_ echoed in her mind, but she shoved that thought away, finding no use in asking it at the moment. One glance at the Potions Master showed that he was uncomfortable, his metaphoric hackles raised, the conversation devolving into one he clearly didn’t want to have. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure the children will appreciate your efforts—and yes, I’m not daft, Snape, I understand you don’t want them to know, don’t take that tone with me!”

Snape shut his mouth and crossed his own arms over his chest in mimicry of Fi’s posture.

“Difficult wizard,” she retort to his unimpressed glower and the stubborn set of his jaw. She made to leave—the stomping of her feet losing its effectiveness when one took their size into consideration—then grabbed a dusty container off the nearest shelf. “I’m taking this jar of Gurdyroots.”

“Out.”

“I’m going already.”

The door swung open and snapped closed again, though Fi stood on the opposing side now, stolen goods tucked into the crook of an elbow, thoughts mulling over Snape and his conflicting behaviors, the lesson plan hidden in the inner pocket of her robes. _Why would he do that? Why help Harry or Longbottom or any of the Gryffindors when he makes it a point to be so scathing otherwise? Why help? It’s almost…almost_ nice.

Fi shuddered and started up the steps.

_I highly doubt Snape would appreciate that sentiment. Not one bit._


	21. Snowballs & Reinventing the Wheel

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**\- Snowballs & Reinventing the Wheel -**

 

After several days of languishing in Hogwarts’ most hallowed and dustiest of archives, both Harry and Ron had come to think that spending the holiday in the library was a terribly boring thing to do. They both knew that Hermione, had she been there to hear their declaration, would have fainted dead away in shock.

Idling the afternoons and early evenings under Madam Pince’s shrewd eye became unbearable the longer the two boys endeavored in their search for Nicholas Flamel. It stood to reason that the wizard should be mentioned _somewhere_ in all those books the Gryffindors pored through, but Ron and Harry found no trace of Flamel; indeed, all they seemed to find for their efforts was a pair of terrible headaches.

“This is pointless,” Ron grumbled as he slammed a volume closed—earning a reprimanding word from the watching librarian. “The bloke’s not in any of these rotten books!”

Harry sent a wistful look out the window toward the snow sticking on the glass. “Maybe we should wait for Hermione.”

“Yeah.” Ron perked up. “Bet she’ll have the answer in no time!”

It took very little persuasion for them to leave their search behind and to dash from the library, Madam Pince tutting in their wake. Harry and Ron had full confidence in Hermione, telling themselves she’d come up with a whole biography on Flamel by the time she returned from holiday—and if they felt guilty about slacking off, they reminded themselves that no one could find information out quite like Hermione could.

“What d’you think Fred and George are up to?” Ron asked as they made their way back to the common room.

“I dunno,” Harry said. No one knew what mischief Ron’s brothers could achieve when left to their own devices. They gave the password to the Fat Lady and scrambled through her portrait, only to find the tower empty aside from Percy sitting by the fireplace studying Arithmancy scrolls.

“Oi,” Ron said, frowning. Percy lifted his head and caught his glasses before they could slide off his nose. “Where’s Fred and George?”

Percy sniffed and scowled, and Harry thought he may have said something petulant if he hadn’t decided it wouldn’t be worth the row with his little brother. “I suppose they’re outside. Something about a snowball fight was circulating through the common rooms earlier.”

Ron and Harry exchanged identical grins before running from the tower, the Fat Lady giving off an indignant squawk as they banged out the entrance mere moments after she’d admitted them the first time. They ran all the way to the castle’s entrance, managing to avoid any confrontations with foul-tempered Potions Masters, though both boys decided to take the long way around on the second floor to avoid a bored Peeves.

Harry’s breath escaped him in white, frigid puffs of air as he and Ron slipped from the main doors and jogged across the blanketed grounds. A brief storm the evening prior had left a generous, pillowy mound of fresh snow over the whole of Hogwarts, and the iron colored clouds overhead had done little to melt off the new ice. Laughter and shouts drifted from the direction of the greenhouses, and as they drew nearer, Harry and Ron saw most of the remaining student body scuffling in the drift, building rudimentary walls and rolling balls together as fast as they could.

Then Harry jerked Ron to the side, saving him from a flying projectile.

“C’mon, I think they’re over here….”

They found Fred and George near a stand of trees, half hidden by a grumbling hedge and a bench, guffawing as they charmed snowballs to seek out more and more difficult targets wending through the greenhouse courtyard. Harry had been expecting to find them outside—but he hadn’t expected to find them with a professor.

“P—Professor Dullahan?!”

“Yes?” she replied, distracted, ducking when a third year Hufflepuff sent a snowball toward her face. “Oh, Harry, Ron—err, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley! How are you?”

“G-good.” Both first years watched on with uncertainty as Fred and George rolled a new ball up and presented it to Professor Dullahan. She had a her wand in one hand, but she used the other to tap the sphere of snow and send it barreling off after the hiding Hufflepuff. A small yelp confirmed success, and the twins began to chuckle again.

Grinning, Professor Dullahan tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear as she turned to look at the younger boys—then scowled. “What are you two doing out here without gloves or hats, hmm?”

Harry glanced at Ron. In their rush to get out of the library and away from Percy, they’d forgotten to grab any of their winter gear. “Um—.”

Muttering about students intent on freezing to death, Professor Dullahan plucked several twigs from the hedge, then waved her wand twice before snapping her fingers. The twigs Transfigured into two scarves the same color as the hedge’s leaves, and the professor foisted the new clothes off onto her young charges.

“But why’s it _green_?” Ron griped, holding the scarf out like a live snake. “It’s _Slytherin’s_ color—.”

“For Circe’s sake—.” Irked, the professor wound the scarf around Ron’s neck, then did the same to Harry, though Harry didn’t protest quite as much as Ron did. “Next time you’ll remember your own, won’t you? Troublesome Gryffindors.”

“We resent that—,” George replied. A snowball hit him in the side of the head, and he went down with a huff of air.

“We’re good little soldiers—.”

“Came prepared and everything—.” George held up a soggy mitten.

Professor Dullahan sighed. “Poppy’s going to have my head if you lot catch a cold during the holiday.”

“We won’t tell a soul, Professor—.”

“Not a one—.”

“Especially if you teach us—.”

“That Charm—.”

Amused, Harry watched as Professor Dullahan bewitched another snowball to go zipping after an opponent, managing to chase a wily Slytherin down. Muffled laughter rose from the other side of an icy barricade. “You’ll have to discover this one on your own, Mister and Mister Weasley.”

Harry and Ron assisted Fred and George in amassing a small mountain of snowballs, which the twins either chucked over the hedge or had Professor Dullahan Charm. For the most part, she leaned back against a tree and gave commentary—telling George to aim higher and Fred to “pack the snow tighter, you’re just making a mess there.” Her own scarf was Ravenclaw blue and tugged upward to cover part of her face, her mittens cut to reveal chilled fingers, and Harry noticed she how the cold embellished a line of tidy white scars on the outside of her palm.

_What’re those from?_

After they had their fun and became tired, red-faced from the chill and breathless with laughter, Professor Dullahan leaned off her tree and gathered her cloak around her. “Alright, my lads. It should be time for supper.”

She went to ruffle Ron and Harry’s hair, hands extended, and while Ron accepted the touch with good-natured grumbling, Harry flinched. Dullahan paused and her expression became thoughtful.

_Stupid_ , he chided himself, blushing.

“All right there, Harry?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave him a gentle pat, lips pursing, and brushed snowflakes from his fringe. “One last throw, then. Mr. Weasley—?”

Fred and George hefted up their largest snowball yet, smiling wide. The Professor rolled her eyes in gentle recrimination but nonetheless gave her wand another wave and snapped her fingers. Wobbling, the mass of snow rose above the hedge and went soaring toward an older Ravenclaw—who saw the slow-moving boulder coming and had the sense to duck.

The snowball went past the Ravenclaw, past the bounds of the courtyard, and right into the face of the passing Potions Master. The five behind the hedge gaped at their own rotten luck and watched in horror as Snape cursed, crumpling under a mini-deluge of melting snow.

A moment of silence fell over the grounds. Harry didn’t think anyone even breathed. “ _Shhhh—ITE_ ,” Dullahan swore, jumping to her feet. “Bugger. _Bugger_. Okay—up you get. Meddlesome Gryffindors will be the end of me. Up, up. Let’s _go!_ ”

Harry needed no more persuasion, nor did any of the Weasley brothers. In fact, any of those in a position to witness what had happened were already dashing for the castle, knocking snow from their gloves and cloaks as they went. Professor Dullahan grabbed Harry and Ron under an arm each to hurry them along after Fred and George. Harry stumbled once but the professor kept him upright, her eyes darting to him, then toward the dwindling courtyard.

By the time they’d made the steps, Snape had regained his feet and started to shout something at one of the poor lingering spectators.

“Poppy won’t be the only one after my head,” Professor Dullahan muttered as she hurried them toward the Great Hall. “Remember, gentlemen: if you find me poisoned by an incredibly rare substance secreted from some toad in the Amazon, it was Severus Snape.”

The others chortled—but Harry paled and forced himself to swallow, not even noticing the Hall’s holiday glamour, or that the House tables had vanished. Snape had tried to kill Harry at the Quidditch game. He’d also gone after whatever Fluffy was guarding in the third floor corridor. What if he really did hurt Professor Dullahan? She was always so kind and helpful to Harry; what if Snape went after her because of that? Should he warn her?

She paused. “What happened to the tables?” Dullahan asked, mirroring Harry’s sentiment.

“Always like this—.”

“For the Feast,” Fred and George put in, respectively. “Headmaster says it keeps things cozy.”

The professor had something uncomplimentary to say about that, but she only blew a stray bit of hair out of her eyes and ushered them forward to find seats. Harry found a spot between Ron and the professor, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid on her other side, Professor Dumbledore sitting across from them. Older students filtered in, and so did quite a few professors Harry didn’t know the names of. Dumbledore smiled.

“I see you were enjoying the snow,” the Headmaster commented, inspecting Harry and the others over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “It is a beautiful time of year, isn’t it?”

Distracted, Harry nodded and Ron did the same.

“If anyone asks,” Dullahan said to Dumbledore. “I was here the whole time.”

“And who might be asking?”

“Irate Potions Masters.”

“Ah.”

Dinner commenced, tureens of buttered peas, roast turkeys bathing themselves in boats of gravy, and veritable mountain ranges of mashed potatoes appearing on the previously empty platters. A seething Snape and those stragglers who hadn’t escaped his wrath came into the Hall soon enough, and Harry heard the tell-tale tinkle of colored gems shifting in the hourglasses at the Hall’s head. Harry quickly preoccupied himself with a serving of chipolatas.

Snape took the seat next to Dumbledore, water dripping from the ends of his long hair as he brought his palms down hard on the table. Harry winced. “You and I will have _words_ later, Dullahan.”

The Magical Theory professor choked. “Bugger,” she mumbled into her pumpkin juice, lowering her head. Snape sneered, then turned his attention to Dumbledore.

As the meal continued—crackers pulled, bright flashes of smoke bursting to life above the table, a few of the professors indulging a little _too_ deeply in what Harry suspected wasn’t pumpkin juice—Harry watched Snape from the corner of his eye and kept a firm hand on his goblet. For his part, Snape glowered at anyone who dared look in his direction and mostly picked at his food.

_What is he after?_ Harry wondered. _He tried to curse me off my broom, let that troll in on Halloween—he could have killed Hermione! I bet Hermione will be able to figure out who Nicholas Flamel is and what Snape—._

Struck by sudden inspiration, Harry almost spilled his juice as he jerked in his seat and turned toward Professor Dullahan. Ron gave him a puzzled glance.

“Professor Dullahan,” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Yes?” she turned from a conversation with Professor McGonagall, who was a bit red in the face and amused by something Hagrid way saying. Professor Dullahan had switched to a beverage with a blue flame wavering over the rim, but she remained sharp-eyed and attentive.

“I’ve been doing this, err, extra-credit research for um—.” Harry racked his mind. “History of Magic, and I was wondering if you know who Nicholas Flamel is?”

She sipped her drink and released a small snort, eyelids flickering. “Nicholas Flamel. Another wizard trying to reinvent the wheel.”

“What?”

Professor Dullahan set her glass down and quashed the flame with her fingertips. “Nicholas Flamel, Mr. Potter,” she said, annunciating each word with bitter irony. Harry waited, breath caught. “Is the creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, which can give its wielder eternal wealth and, more importantly, eternal life.”

Harry gulped.


	22. Biros & a Brilliant Boy

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

**\- Biros & a Brilliant Boy -**

 

Fi sat cross-legged on her desk and watched four cauldrons bubble.

She found it funny despite herself that the quality of the liquid being brewed degraded as one slid along the line of desks. The Forgetfulness Potion was meant to be a very light green with a thin mist gathered about the top of it. Granger had managed the potion perfectly, while Harry’s was just a shade off, his mist billowing like the cap of a mushroom. _Hmm_.

“A drop too much Lethe River water, Mr. Potter.”

He frowned, the cauldron’s firelight reflecting off the mended glass of his spectacles. “I added two like you said.” He spoke quietly and without challenge, inquiring rather than refuting. Fi hummed in thought and tipped her hand.

“Inspect your dropper against Miss Granger’s. You always want to make sure your tools are in proper, working order.”

Harry moved from his desk to Hermione’s to do just that. Weasley’s potion had taken on a curdled texture reminiscent of old milk. The color didn’t add to the appeal.

“You didn’t crush the mistletoe berries, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron pressed his lips together and flushed. Fi could tell by looking at his clean mortar and pestle that he hadn’t done the work right.

Finally, at the end of the row, Longbottom’s cauldron seethed with a vile smelling concoction glowing green like the toxic waste Muggles moaned about. Fi wasn’t actually certain _where_ the poor boy had gone wrong, and so she sat in silent contemplation, frowning, staring at the mess and trying to puzzle through the anomaly. Longbottom looked close to fainting. Granger had confessed to Fi that she’d bullied Neville into attending tutoring, because the boy was almost as terrified of the hedge witch as he was of Snape.

_Well, that just won’t do_.

“Mr. Longbottom—.” Neville tensed, waiting for the hammer to fall. “Could you walk me through exactly what you did? Let’s see if you can spot your mistake.”

He started to explain as the others watched on, stuttering and staring at the cauldron and its filmy ooze. When he got to the part about the mistletoe berries, Longbottom froze and straightened, round face paling as his eyes darted to the mortar half-hidden by his potions kit. Inside, the berries had been crushed—but he’d forgotten to add them entirely.

“Ah, well,” Fi sighed, Vanishing the mixture with a quick flick of her wrist. “I think it would help for you to organize your workstation, Mr. Longbottom. I believe you missed your mistletoe because your mortar was out of sight. It’s quite alright, don’t fuss. The best potioneers can be fooled by their own memory. Next time, read your directions, then line your needed ingredients up in plain sight.”

Neville said nothing, but he did give a glum nod as he stared at his desk, red in the face.

Fi rose and approached the others to better examine their work, judging the consistency by ladling the potion out and back into the waiting cauldrons. She pointed out to Weasley exactly how the lack adjustment to his berries had changed his mixture and what those changes meant to its efficacy, though she got the general impression from his glazed blue eyes that Ron really didn’t have much interest in potion brewing. She moved on to Potter, and as she spoke he began to take notes. Fi glanced down.

“Harry—Mr. Potter, your handwriting is atrocious,” she said, earning a snort from Ron and a blush from Harry. He lifted his quill from the ink splattered parchment. “Don’t throttle the quill like that. Hold it like you would one of those—.” Fi’s hands fluttered, grasping for a word she only vaguely remembered. “Burros.”

“Biros,” Granger supplied.

“Exactly right.” Fi nodded. She took Potter’s small hand in hers, registered the slight flinch, and readjusted his fingers, changing the angle of his hand. “Like that. Use a light pressure now, you don’t have to press quite so severely…there. Dip the quill now—mind the excess! Clean the edge on the lip of the inkwell. Well, now your quill just has a poor edge to it. Where’s your knife…?”

For the next several minutes, Fi showed the gathered Gryffindors how to cut, clean, use, and store quills, her hands moving in quick, perfunctory motions, late afternoon sunshine slanting through the windows, ice melting on the fogged panes. Her mind drifted, just for an instant, back to her own childhood, when she’d been a bit shorter and bit wilder than now, and she’d watched the narrow hands of her mother sharpen the tips of dappled eagle feathers while she scolded Fi for not grinding the ink right.

“Why can’t we use Biros?” Harry suddenly asked, miffed, though his terrifying scrawl could be somewhat deciphered now. “They’re a lot easier to write with than quills.”

“Magic isn’t about ease, Mr. Potter,” Fi replied. He gave her a doubtful look over the tops of his glasses. She tapped her own chin in thought, then Fi turned to Miss Granger. “Miss Granger, would have a Biro on you, by chance?”

Miss Granger—ever ready and prepared, her bag more organized than anything Fi had seen—retrieved the slender, cylindrical pen and held it out. Fi took it between two fingers like it was her grandmother’s china—her paternal grandmother, who had probably never used the same teacup twice, not the maternal one, who hadn’t even been able to write and would have used quills to clean viscera and offal out from under her fingernails. “Excellent, thank you.”

Fi took two sheets of parchment from Harry and his quill. She laid both out next to each other on an empty desk, then used the Biro to write a series of nonsense words on one piece. The words came out sloppy and disjointed, earning a chuckle out of Potter and a huff from Fi. She used the quill to repeat the words in a much tidier script on the other parchment.

“Magic is not meant to be easy,” she said, retrieving her wand from her pocket, the stupid thing humming like a violin chord plucked the wrong way. Fi concentrated and kept her Will from the wand’s core, her dominant hand kept free, where the magic naturally centered and eddied. She intoned soft, formless words under her breath and gave the wand a flick—then twisted her main hand, turning her Will so the parchments duplicated.

The parchment marred by the quill replicated itself just fine, the ink dry and the words exact. The other page, however, lifted and shuddered, and the replication came out twisted, the paper curled in upon Fi’s messy Biro lettering like the inked lines were made out of stone.

“Magic is a force of nature. Witches and wizards have the ability to _direct_ it, but not control it—not really. Can you control the rain? The storm? Muggles, on the other hand, lack all affinity for magic, and thus shun it, even if they do so subconsciously. This—.” She lifted the Biro in her palm. “Was created in one of their factories, was it not? Made of plastic, polymers, cheap metal, and other highly processed materials. I could Transfigure it, perhaps, but the spell would be weak and would not last. Muggle processing renders objects inert to magic, steals traces of magic from their very being. Once the magic is gone, it cannot return, can’t really touch the Biro or its ink. When you go home, Miss Granger, visit a Muggle city: you’ll be able to sense the dearth of magic now.”

Fi was glad to hand the Biro back, as the touch of the little writing implement felt rather unpleasant on her skin. “Now this—.” She picked up Harry’s quill. “Was made by a wizard. A pheasant feather, most likely from a farm. Plucked, cleaned, and preserved with spells, then delivered to Flourish and Blotts. The ink was undoubtedly ground and created with magic: more expensive inks you’ll find are made by hand.” Fi returned the quill to Potter. He and the other first years were listening closely, Miss Granger lost in thought. “Oh, I don’t mean to lecture. It all comes down to the intrinsic heart of magic; the closer you encroach upon the _ideal_ , the more magic—energy, you could say—you will find, and the more it will respond to your Will. Items that aren’t even touched by human hands, Muggle or otherwise, become too _artificial_ for spells to work properly on. You get odd results—such as when you try to duplicate a page written in Muggle ink.”

Hermione raised her hand, tentative. Fi grinned. “You don’t have to do that. We’re just having a discussion, not in class.”

Blushing, Miss Granger asked, “What is the _ideal_ , Professor?”

Fi let out a huff and scratched her nose, not quite meeting the young girl’s eyes. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? People have been trying to answer that forever. What is magic at its purest, its most primal state? I don’t know the answer, Miss Granger.” Well, Fi had a better understanding of it than she was going to let four children know. Hermione was already too clever by half, and the boys saw more than they let on. “I do know, however, that the best way to consider magic is barefoot on a summer night beneath the moon. You never know, you might just find your answer that way.”

They returned to their potions and began to clean up when the bell rang, ending their free period. “Mr. Longbottom, stay for just a moment, would you?”

The others gathered their possessions and headed toward the door, though they did spare a few questioning looks for Neville—who had turned as pale as the snow still limning the lawns. Fi stood in front on his desk, rocking on her heels, and the poor boy clutched his book bag like a shield. The door shut behind Harry.

“Mr. Longbottom,” she began, not quite sure what to say. “Neville…why are you afraid of me?”

Color rushed into his cheeks and the Gryffindor stuttered, the words incoherent.

“Is it my naturally villainous face? Because there’s nothing I can do about that,” Fi teased. They both knew she had a pretty countenance, good features and a lazy, kneazle-ate-the-owl smile. Her eyes were, by far, the oddest facet of her: pale and hard to look at, the hedge witch’s scrutiny difficult to bear.

Neville’s shoulders slouched ever so slightly, the corners of his lips flickering.

“You know, I sometimes nip down to the greenhouses to chat with Pomona.” _And to hide from Snape, so he can’t assign more detentions to me_. “I have an affinity for plants, you see, having tended more than my fair share of gardens over the years. My—lifestyle demands a certain level of knowledge concerning herbs, potions, and how to prepare them. Professor Sprout and I chat, and she tells me how absolutely brilliant you are at Herbology.”

The flush returned to Longbottom’s round face, but he watched Fi, listening, eyes shining.

“She bragged about how you handled Bouncing Bulbs like an expert in one of her lessons. Mind, I always end up chasing the blasted things across the garden. Once, I had one of them hit the edge of a planter, fly back at me, and blacken my eye.”

Neville couldn’t quite stifle his snort of amusement and looked horrified with himself. Fi flapped a hand.

“No, go ahead and laugh. Morgana knows my mentor did. I’m bringing this up because I want you to see that Professor Sprout, a brilliant woman quite distinguished in her field, thinks you’re very talented. Potions, for all its intricacies and difficulties, is quite like Herbology: the cauldron is your planter, and you have to know what kind of soil to use, how much water, how deep to plant the seeds, which plants can be put together, which need more sunlight and which need less. It’s not so different, so I know you can be just as brilliant in Potions as you can in Herbology. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Professor Dullahan.”

Fi clasped her hands behind her back, considering the boy. “In life, you will come across many people who frighten you, who unnerve you, people like me or…Professor Snape.” Neville gulped. “I won’t feed you some platitude about there being nothing to fear, because you may very well always be afraid of Professor Snape and I may very well always unnerve you. I think, however, it’s important for you to realize there’s a reason Snape is the way he is, a reason he is snide and cruel, and that reason might simply be that he’s an arsehole—.” Fi grinned and Longbottom reeled, flabbergasted. “Or it might not. It doesn’t matter. All that matters, Neville, is that you remember you are a capable, brilliant young man, and no one can make you anything less.”

Longbottom stared at the desk’s top as she spoke, ears red, expression somewhere between mortified and pleased. “Thank you, Professor Dullahan,” he whispered at last. Neville fidgeted with his bag before looking up, forcing himself to stare fully into the hedge witch’s face, something many of her students failed to do. “I—I really like your lessons!”

“I’m glad. I enjoy teaching you.” Fi tipped her chin toward the closed door. “You’d better hurry, though. Your next class will start soon.”

Longbottom grabbed his things and bolted, relieved to be out of Fi’s direct attention. Amused, she watched him go, and when the door came closed again with a gentle thud, Fi’s eyes roved toward the windows and she slowly paced by the empty desks, footsteps muffled by the long hem of her robes. With Ever and Puck enclosed in her office and no students in sight, Fi allowed her posture to slump and laid her forehead on the frozen glass with a sigh.

January was already slipping away into February. Fi had spent many years at her cottage in the Highlands, but she’d never allowed herself to fall into _routine_ , setting out whenever the fancy hit her, visiting associates, procuring the occasional odd job to keep herself somewhat afloat. Here, routine defined her day to day, and the school term quickly slid through her grasping fingers. It had already been a year since Fi had responded to McGonagall’s ad for a Magical Theory professor. A full year, and soon summer would arrive and Fi would have to vacate Hogwarts with the others.

Fi stared out the window, quiet and contemplative, and wondered if she’d be returning next term, if the Death Eaters had given up their search, if it was okay for her to _want_ to stay here. Fi didn’t know the answers to any of those questions, so she thumped her head on the glass and sighed again.

Next door, Puck screeched.


	23. Tessomancy & Bloodied Noses

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

**\- Tessomancy & Bloodied Noses -**

 

The scritch of a quill’s tip moving across parchment and purr of an Augurey’s slumbering breath were the only sounds to be heard in Delphinia Dullahan’s office on that quiet night midway through April.

Fi sat behind her desk doing what most professors were doing during the Easter holiday: grading papers. Truthfully, it seemed professors never _stopped_ grading papers, but with finals looming on the proverbial horizon, Fi and the others had been forced to double their students’ workload and, thus, double their own responsibilities. Fi lingered longer and longer in the candlelight these nights, watching the wavering flame, red ink slashed across a student’s paper like fresh blood. She hummed Gaelic nursery rhymes under her breath and listened to Ever’s nattering.

Tonight, the hour had grown late, curfew come and gone, Ever silent and gruesome on her shelf and Puck snoozing on his perch. Fi sipped her cold tea and considered the filmy dregs left to swirl about the bottom. She tipped the empty cup toward the light.

“Hey, Ever,” she said aloud, bored. “What does this look like to you?”

Startled awake—or out of whatever trance the not-quite-living descended into—Ever grunted. “What?”

“What does this look like?”

A beat of silence, then, “It looks like a whelp who should have her backside switched for waking up a High Witch! Honestly, Delphinia! _Tessomancy_ at this hour?”

Fi shrugged, swiveling the cup. “No, looks a bit like a sailboat this way. But if you turn it _this_ way—.” She flipped the cup around. “Looks like a bird. Like a hawk or a falcon or somethin’.” She swallowed a yawn. “And _this_ way, it looks like Puck when he flew into that window. You remember? And then he slid down the wall—.”

“Yes, Delphinia.”

“Like a crumpled ball of parchment—.”

“Yes, Delphinia.”

“I feel like you’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

“Yes, Delphinia.”

“…Fine.”

Grumbling, Fi returned to her grading, propping her head up on a bent arm. She spent far too much time correcting the grammar and spelling of half-bloods and pure-bloods while Muggle-borns had enough primary school under their belts to keep their words comprehensive. Fi wondered what had become of the tradition of schooling the newest generations at home. The vast majority of the Wizarding community was related to some extent, the pure-bloods more so, and a century ago they used to gather their children together by age group and tutor them at home before Hogwarts sent letters. Had that tradition gone by the wayside?

Or were there just not enough pure-bloods left?

 _Sad_ , Fi thought. _But entirely plausible._ After all, the Aeter witches had been providing fresh blood for the Wizarding world for nigh on two millennia. In days past, the coven had found their… _conquests_ among the pure-blood Wizards, and had preformed that hallowed service needed by all barren family patriarchs; if the Aeter witch bore a son, the boy was returned to his father, no questions asked, and if she bore a daughter, then the coven got a new sister. Fi herself was the daughter of a proper English lord with more money than sense. She met him once as a child because her mother had something of a soft spot for the bloke, having given him two sons before Fi came along. He’d sniffed at her unkempt appearance but hadn’t dared say a word, terrified of her mother. Insulting Melisande Dullahan was tantamount to suicide.

Every pure-blood family still alive owed their existence to an Aeter witch who freshened their bloodlines at some point in time. Fi pondered what would happen to Wizarding Britain without her coven, and whether the irrevocable decline had already begun.

A sudden knock at her office door shook Fi from her reverie. “Come in,” she said, lowering her eyes to the parchment again, poking at the spot of ink that’d welled on the page in her wool gathering. _Who is that? Snape? I swear the man never sleeps—_.

The ripe smell of garlic dashed that thought away.

Quirinus Quirrell stepped across her office’s threshold and closed the door behind him. Frowning, Fi met the man’s shadowed gaze and he simpered.

“H-h-hello, Fi.”

“’Lo, Quirinus,” she responded, returning her quill to its pot. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope you don’t m-m-mind, I saw t-t-the light o-o-on.”

Fi doubted that, considering he would have had to step into her classroom to spot the candlelight beneath the door, so he must have been coming prior to seeing the light. “Ah, well. Can I get you a cuppa?”

“Y-y-yes, please.”

Fi’s eye twitched, but she otherwise kept herself composed as she rose and went to the kettle sitting on a short table by her covered mirror. She snapped her fingers to ignite a flame and went about preparing two cups of tea, keeping Quirrell within her sights while he lingered at the door, then by her desk. She could have summoned a house elf—but frankly the little creatures unnerved Fi, since her office was bloody warded and _still_ they could pop in at the most inopportune times, scaring her half to death.

“Q-q-quite the collection you have,” Quirrell commented as Fi returned and held out his cup of tea. The man’s fingers brushed hers as he took it. Fi’s eyes narrowed; the unmistakable burn of Dark magic eddied at the touch, a palpable film of it coating Quirrell’s hands like morning dew on an untouched lawn. Fi was not a stranger to Dark magic, but she found it odd a man who pro-actively taught _defense_ against the Art would be so steeped in it.

“Yes….” She glanced at the shelf behind her, following Quirrell’s stare, and sat down in her chair. “Just odds and ends I’ve collected in my travels.”

His gaze came to rest on Ever with frightful scrutiny, his body unflinching in a way it never was during meals. “Did you kill her yourself?”

Fi considered him, frowning. “No.”

“Why keep her skull?”

“Why not?”

“Seems an odd choice, Professor _Dullahan_.”

Something in his voice had shifted, and Quirrell’s usual stuttering had subsided—or was that Fi’s imagination? His tongue lingered over her name with familiarity, as if he _knew_ , but Quirrell didn’t _know_ , and Fi wasn’t going to enlighten the strange man. _Merlin, it’s too late for this._ Fi sipped her tea.

“H-Hogwarts must be a difficult place for a w-well-traveled witch to stay.”

Fi shrugged. “Not especially. You yourself have traveled, have you not?”

“O-of course.”

She drank tea and watched Quirrell over the rim of her cup. He smiled, and the expression gleamed with confidence he’d never displayed in her presence before. The hairs on the back of Fi’s neck prickled as she stared at Quirinus—and Quirinus stared right back at her.

“Why did you come to Hogwarts, Delphinia?”

“To teach, of course.”

“ _Of course_.” He set his tea down on the edge of her desk and crossed his hands over his middle. “But that’s not all, is it? I wouldn’t imagine so. Most come in search of something. Power, knowledge…safety.”

Fi’s hand stilled on her cup. The tea rippled. Quirrell’s gleaming teeth looked like they belonged to a Matagot.

“You’re a talented witch, Delphinia. Very talented. I think we could form a… _beneficial_ partnership. I could introduce you to a party who’d be _particularly_ interested in a witch of your capabilities. Interested enough to give you what you seek.”

Something cold and heavy lurched in Fi’s gut, and she recognized it as dread. Her instincts blared warning, her legs buzzing with the need to _run_ , and Fi couldn’t say _why_. Morgana knew how bloody odd Quirrell was, but Fi had handled numerous odd, questionable, and downright deranged wizards in her time. What was different about him?

“Quirinus—.”

Suddenly, green flames erupted in the hearth and Fi flinched, Puck coming awake with a loud, window rattling screech. The tea cup fell from Fi’s stiff fingers and shattered upon the crystal covered floor.

“ _Dullahan!_ ” a voice yelled from the ignited fire, echoing in the Floo. She knew that voice. It was Snape.

“Ah, well,” Quirrell muttered, rising to his feet. “Another t-t-time, F-F-Fi.”

She watched him leave, didn’t move until the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stepped out of the office and shut the door with a gentle touch, then Fi twisted her hand to lock and ward the door. Her heart thundered in her chest.

“Delphinia,” Ever said from her shelf, voice sharp, alert. “Delphinia, you should avoid that man. He knows.”

“He can’t know,” Fi responded, but the words came out soft, uncertain. Ever said something else, but Fi had turned to the fire, kneeling by the hearth as she took a pinch of powder from the pot, threw it onto the logs, and said, “Yes, Professor Snape?”

The Potions Master’s voice came a moment later. “ _You are needed in the Slytherin common room_.”

“Am I now?” Fi drawled, but she gathered another pinch of powder, and without a backward glance toward Ever, said, “Slytherin common room,” and stepped into the writhing fire.

She had never been to the Slytherin common room before, though she knew where it was and had been given a general impression of what the space looked like. Fi knew it resided below the lake, as befitted part of the castle’s subterranean dungeon complex, and she’d been told about the silver lanterns that were said to emit a calming glow, but otherwise she knew very little about the home of the Slytherins. She ducked her head to avoid the overhanging lip of the stone mantel as she exited the Floo, and immediately covered her nose against the smell of burnt carpet.

The arrangement of heavy, green velvet chairs and couches settled around the main hearth had been scattered, one smoldering and emitting the noxious odor. Pale, anxious Slytherins dotted the peripheries, dressed in their nightgowns and rumpled pajamas, four of the older boys the apparent source of their nervous attention. Snape—dressed in a nightshirt and robe, mussy-headed and absolutely livid, _great galloping gargoyles he does sleep sometimes_ —was verbally cutting the boys to ribbons, four wands stuffed into his pocket with his own in his hand.

“—had my way, you’d be on the train to London before first light,” he hissed at one student. Yaxley, if Fi remembered correctly. He was a seventh year of impressive stature, as tall as Snape and almost twice as wide. He was quivering—with rage, she guessed, as he glowered at the other boy, a sixth year named Bowler. “Your disgraceful behavior has no place in the noble house of Slytherin.”

The Potions Master whipped about to see Fi as she approached. He took in her appearance, dark eyes lingering on the navy teaching robes she still wore, the hem whispering across the sooty dungeon floor. Deciding the man was in no mood for her snark, Fi lifted a brow in silent question.

“Professor Dullahan, please remain here with Mr. Yaxley and Mr. Bowler while I see Mr. Rosier to the infirmary.” He grabbed the arm of a third boy slumped on the floor with vomit down his front and a rather dazed grin. Lip curled, Snape got him up and went to the hearth, disappearing in a quick dash of Floo powder taken from his pocket.

“Well, then,” Fi said, dismissing the remains of sick with a casual wave of her hand. The common room was dark, all the candelabras doused, but Fi appreciated the Gothic aesthetic, the serpentine whorls in the wood and the preserved tapestries placed on the walls. Green lamps hung from the high ceiling, suspended like emerald drops in the air, their inner glow dim in the late hour. Narrow windows along the curved outer expanse looked out into the nebulous depths of the lake, and the dappled light of the moon swirled through the shifting current to spill upon the pricey rugs. “Nice place you lot have got here.”

Neither Yaxley nor Bowler responded. Indeed, the moment Snape had vanished, Yaxley had straightened his massive shoulders and spat at the sixth year. Bowler’s friend Peters—or Peterson maybe, Fi didn’t have many upper years in her classes and had difficulty learning all their names—kept an arm locked around Bowler’s to keep him in place. “If the old man expels me or Rosier, I’ll curse your whole Mudblood family, filth.”

Bowler snarled, his curly hair trembling. “Better a Mudblood than the son of a Death Eater who betrayed the Lord for his own skin!”

Fi had less than a moment to leap forward and grab hold of Yaxley by the back of his pajamas while Peters or Peterson all but throttled Bowler to keep him back. Wandless, all they could do is bellow insults at one another and curl their fists like Muggle street thugs. One of the spectators screamed as Yaxley swung his elbow back, trying to dislodge the Magical Theory professor, and landed a blow in her face.

“ _OW_! _Bloody hell!_ ”

The room froze as Fi clutched her broken nose with one hand still fisted in Yaxley’s clothes. Blood welled and spilled through her crimped fingers. “ _Berlin’s pan’s_! Will you two just’ sid down?!”

Her voice came out thick, nasally, and the two brawling students seemed to realize they’d only made their predicament worse, so they both sat right on the floor without moving to one of the armchairs, Yaxley now peaky and Bowler flushed.

“The red of you, go do bed!” Fi snapped as she fished about in her robes for a clean flannel. When no one moved, Fi lifted her head and shouted, “Now!”

The Slytherins scattered, bolting for their respective stairwells. Only moments later Snape returned, his foul temper seeming to sweep into the room before him, freezing the tepid warmth of the banking fire as his eyes swept first over the three boys now sitting slump-shouldered on the floor, to Fi, bloodied and fussing with a broken nose.

“ _Disgraceful_ ,” he hissed again at Yaxley, who had the good sense not to argue. All three students were ushered into the hearth, this time headed for the Headmaster’s office. Snape glanced at Fi before departing. “Dullahan, I will return in another minute.”

Fi grunted, “Whaddever,” and sank onto the nearest sofa. The cushions had supported a fair number of Slytherin backsides over the years, and so they gave with comfortable wear, Fi hooking her foot around an antique ottoman to drag it nearer. Without muttering or snarling students, the lapping of the lake became audible, slow and methodical, ancient pipes groaning in the walls as the castle’s temperature shifted. Fi tilted her head back with a grimace and held the flannel close. The room was quiet then. Peaceful. Comforting.

 _Wouldn’t have been so bad to go to school here,_ she thought, eyes on one of the orb-like lamps hanging above her and the weak, withered glow of magic humming in the glass. _Centuries ago_.

The dying fire sputtered and Snape returned a final time, his robe soot covered from multiple trips, embers trampled into the rug. A muttered spell cleaned the mess, then the Potions Master approached Fi, pausing for an instant before taking a seat on the edge of the sofa at her side. He looked exhausted. “Move your hand.”

She did so, the flannel stuck to her fingers, and Snape gave his wand a practiced flick. “ _Episkey_.”

Fi’s nose snapped back into place with a crunch. “ _Bugger!_ ”

“Charming as ever, Dullahan,” Snape said, though the words lacked his usual vitriol, coming out drained and tired. He tucked his wand into his sleeve. “Tilt your head back.” Fi did so, and he gave her chin a perfunctory turn from side to side, inspecting his work, his fingers cold as stone on her skin. “It’s perfectly fine now.”

“Thanks,” she replied, probing the tender skin around her nose. She’d have a black eye in the morning if she didn’t put salve on it. “Is it always so much _fun_ down here in Slytherin House? The other professors always rave about how well-behaved they are, and my students are normally quite easy to manage, if a bit…stiff sometimes.”

Snape didn’t reply at first. He stared instead at Fi’s bloody hand laying prone in her lap, then at the chair still smoldering. _What happened there? A Reducto curse misfired?_ “It’s one of the House rules, not letting conflict spill outside these walls. Surely you’ve noticed attitudes toward those of Slytherin are less than…kind. I would wager you received similar treatment in Horned Serpent.”

Fi shrugged and glanced away, sniffing. “Well, I know rivalries between the Houses, especially Slytherin and Gryffindor, can be rather tense.”

“That _rivalry_ rarely ends once one leaves Hogwarts,” Snape sneered. “We keep our conflicts internal so our problems cannot be used by _Gryffindors_ for their own gain. Tensions have been high of late because of new articles being pushed by the _Prophet_. New articles on old news, all concerning old families and their…loyalties.”

“Ah….” Fi had read those articles during breakfast and had wondered at which of her students had Death Eater parents out there hunting her. She didn’t hold it against the kids, of course, but it never hurt to be wary. Fi dared to look at Snape’s covered arm and he didn’t appear to notice. “I see.”

“Your assistance was appreciated this evening, Dullahan.”

She shrugged, smirking. “I am an honorary Slytherin, after all.” Fi rose and so did Snape, the latter standing much taller than the former, his face mostly hidden by the displacement of shadows. “You know, I’m distantly related to Salazar.” _Very distantly_. _Give or take a dozen generations._

His mouth quirked. “Are you, now?”

“Yes. Through an aunt—so no, I can’t jabber on with snakes.” Fi paused for a moment, wrapping the soiled cloth about her fingers, feeling the sticky folds crackle where the blood had dried. Her mind flashed back to her office, to the strange scene she’d left maybe half an hour prior. “Can I ask you something odd, Professor Snape?”

He froze, then tipped his head in acquiescence.

“Is there something…wrong with Quirinus?” Fi inquired, scratching her head. “Oh, that sounds awful. I know the bloke apparently had some terrible scare in Albania—.” Not that Fi thought a run-in with some vampires could result in such a profound stutter. She knew a number of vampires who lived in the peripheries of the country and could all be called on for a spot of tea, if she were sure not to show up unannounced around supper time. She wouldn’t mention the Dark magic on Quirrell, not when she didn’t know the particulars of what he’d been up to. Surely Dumbledore could sense the magic, anyway. “But just before you called me down here, he showed up at my office door and was acting very…peculiar.”

“Peculiar how?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Fi said slowly, considering each word. “I wouldn’t know how to say, exactly. He wasn’t stuttering, though. Merlin, maybe the man was just drunk or something.”

Snape stared. He didn’t appear to be breathing, and then he inhaled deliberately, chest rising and falling once. “If you are truly seeking my counsel, I would advise you to keep a measure of distance between yourself and Quirrell. He has not been himself since returning from his sabbatical abroad. The Headmaster is aware and watching his behavior, but I would caution wariness. Did he ask you to do anything?”

“Do anything?”

“Did he ask you about the third floor corridor?”

Fi’s nose wrinkled. “You mean the one that’s blocked off? No.”

“Good. Do yourself a favor, Dullahan, and don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She stretched, then yawned, wincing at the pull of muscles in her sore face. “I have to imagine a place as old as Hogwarts is entitled to a few secrets. Thanks for the advice, Snape.”

“…you are welcome, Dullahan.” He dipped a hand into his robes to retrieve a depleted pouch of Floo powder, which he offered to her. He straightened his spine as they approached the main fireplace and said, “A few of my more incapable first year students have shown remarkable progress of late. I have to ask if such wonders will ever cease.”

Fi chuckled. “Perhaps they are simply more capable than you thought?”

“I have been mistaken before.” She took the pouch from him, and Snape folded his hands together in the thick folds of his sleeves. “Though not often. Good night, Dullahan.”

“Good night, Snape.”

The powder popped in the grate, and with a single word, Fi disappeared.


End file.
